


Wings of Black, Brown and Grey

by Portrait_of_a_Fool



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:30:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portrait_of_a_Fool/pseuds/Portrait_of_a_Fool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a lonely man living in a world he was not born into. He has his job, his hobbies his pets and a couple of friends; his life is perfectly, boringly ordinary. Then one day a stranger named Sam sits down next to him on a park bench and after that his life isn't so ordinary anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings of Black, Brown and Grey

**Author's Note:**

> I started this back in the summer as an attempt at procrastinating on another project; I thought this would be a fun little sidetrip while I put off working on my other story. Well, that other story got finished months ago and this one grew because it took on a life of its own. Also, while this is very much an AU, I did try to incorporate canonical elements of the show itself to make the playground a little more familiar.

  


_“Every angel is terrifying.”_

— Rainer Maria Rilke  
“Duino Elegies”

Castiel is sitting on a bench in the little town square, listening to the church bells chime the six o’clock hour when he sits down beside him. He’s a big man in an even bigger coat, long and black; dusty. His appearance is startling and Castiel jumps as he turns to look at him. There is a can of Coke leaning against his outer thigh and the movement upsets it, spilling it across the painted dark blue metal of the bench. It fizzes angrily as it streams across the bench and drips between the slats in the seat.

The man who’s just sat beside him cocks his head, hazel eyes flicking down to look at the mess then back up at Castiel. “I am so sorry,” Castiel says as he watches what cola didn’t fizz its way between the slats in the seat creeping across the metal to soak into the stranger’s dark coat.

Castiel reaches into his own coat pockets, searching for a handkerchief or a napkin to mop up the mess he’s just made, waiting for the man to snap at him about the mess on his coat any moment. He’s just found his handkerchief hiding under a wad of receipts left over from paying his bills earlier when the man finally speaks.

He says, “You’re sad.”

It’s not a question; it’s said merely as a statement of fact. It still takes a moment for it to register though and at first Castiel thinks he’s being a jerk, calling him pathetic or something because he spilled his Coke on the man’s coat. Then the inflection in those two words clicks and Castiel looks at him curiously.

“I am?” he asks because he doesn’t know what else to say. The truth is that he _is_ sad. Today is his mother’s birthday and he hasn’t seen her since he was eighteen or kissed her cheek to tell her, _Happy birthday, mama_ since he was sixteen years old. Every time this year he gets a case of the blues and finds himself sitting outside the local church thinking about his family.

“You are,” the man confirms and settles back against the bench, looking across the street at the church, too.

Castiel has his handkerchief in hand and because he still doesn’t know what to do about all of this, he mops up the sticky mess left behind by his Coke. He is left feeling a little uneasy with the man’s familiar way of speaking to him like he knows him. Coupled with his size and the way he’s dressed, it’s altogether strange.

“Do we know one another?” Castiel asks politely, wanting to demand he tell him who he is at once, but he holds his tongue. He still has some manners after all. Castiel notices for the first time just how _young_ the man looks sitting there. Far younger than Castiel himself he’d bet.

The stranger’s lips quirk in a faint smile and he shakes his head. “No,” he says.

“Then how can you tell whether I’m sad or not?” Castiel asks.

“I just can,” the man says and his lips twitch into another ghost of a smile. “Your sadness smells like burning leaves.” He waves a hand, long fingers combing and twining through the fall air briefly before he turns his head to look at Castiel again. The light has shifted, throwing his face into mottled shadows falling through the oak limbs overhead and hiding his eyes that had shone clearly moments before. When he sniffs the air lightly, Castiel almost flinches. “It’s an old smell on you; been there for ages now.”

“ _What?_ ” Castiel asks, shocked and okay, he’s a little afraid now because no one says things like that unless they’re crazy and this guy is obviously _insane_. He really needs to be going, he thinks.

He stands up before the man has a chance to answer and is already a few steps away when he hears the man calling after him, “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Castiel keeps walking, but he thinks he hears his name spoken ever so softly, rustling around in the wind to tickle his ears. When he does, he turns around to look back. The bench is empty, nothing but his forgotten Coke can rolling around in the breeze blowing through the square.

He shivers and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his beige trench coat and walks back to his truck half certain that the stranger with the hazel eyes is going to fall in step beside him at any moment.

~*~*~*~*~*~

That night Castiel wakes to the sound of his dog, Lot, barking fiercely. He’s standing at the window beside Castiel’s bed, looking out at something with his hackles raised and floppy ears laid back as best he can manage. Castiel frowns and calls his name sleepily as the sound booms in the room and in his head. When that doesn’t work, he goes to the dog and hooks two fingers under his collar to pull him back as he tries to shush him. The wind-whipped limbs of the trees ringing the property are sending dancing shadows across the white walls of Castiel’s bedroom, streaking his skin with jittering black stripes as he struggles with the dog who is usually well behaved. He manages to drag Lot away from the window and his cat, Agriope, arches her tabby-striped back and hisses before jumping down from her usual nighttime perch on the windowsill and running away.

Puzzled and more than a little concerned at his pets’ strange behavior, Castiel moves to the window to see if there’s something out there. He squints and blinks, pressing his fingers to the cold glass and leaning closer to look down at his yard. Standing beneath his window is the man from the town square and he’s looking right back at Castiel from a face turned into a silver-and-shadow mask by the moonlight. The hair on the back of Castiel’s neck prickles as he watches the tails of the man’s great, long coat fluttering around him in the wind like broken wings. Castiel can see the white pearls of his teeth when he smiles at him, the action parting the shadows that have fallen over his mouth.

Castiel wants to scream at the sight.

He also wants to go downstairs and out his backdoor to stand beside the tall man in the long coat.

“Go back to sleep,” the man says even though Castiel can see that his smile never falters. “All is well.”

Castiel does and does not believe him, but he goes back to bed. He feels almost _pulled_ towards it and he is so, so sleepy that he doesn’t really think about it all that much. He simply falls into bed, snuggles down under his blankets and falls right into sleep.

He dreams of strange, unsettling things after that; of the wind singing sad songs as phantom fingers stroke the hair at his temple. Lips, warm and moist press a kiss to his forehead. There is a sense of weight and life and presence above him; of someone leaning over him. But Castiel can never see who it is no matter how hard he tries, even though he knows his eyes are open.

Somewhere in the background of it all, Lot is barking-barking-barking.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning Castiel doesn’t remember anything, but he feels like he didn’t sleep at all. He gets dressed for the day then heads downstairs to let Lot out and watches him running around the backyard, sniffing at one spot with great interest, hackles prickling up along his spine slightly before the urge to pee gets the best of him. He bounds off, nose still to the ground and cocks his leg against the trunk of the tree outside of Castiel’s bedroom window. Castiel yawns and watches it all with sleepy disinterest for another minute or so before turning around and shuffling back inside to fix his coffee.

He feels strange, like his mind is wrapped in a thin layer of cotton and all Castiel wants to do is climb back into bed and sleep some more. He can’t do that though, he’s got work and Castiel hasn’t missed a single day’s labor in the nearly twenty years he’s been working at Singer Salvage.

He leaves Lot running around the fenced backyard for the day and scratches Agriope, smiling when she purrs happily and butts her head into his hand as he withdraws it, demanding more. “Have a good day, girl. Don’t let any burglars in, okay? You know Lot is useless,” he tells the cat with a soft laugh as he moves towards the front door.

He checks to make sure he’s got his wallet and keys then leaves after telling them goodbye for now. People probably find it odd that he talks to his pets, but they’re the most company Castiel usually ever has and by now talking to his animals is just something he _does_. It’s neither good or bad, but a way to pass the time and without the comforting friendship of animals he would’ve been so incredibly lonely, especially at first. Where he came from, they had animals everywhere for everything, except as pets. Animals were not meant to be companions, but were instead used as tools to plow the fields and herd the goats. Even cats had a job to do—they were meant to hunt mice and keep them out of the barns and grain sheds and were mostly feral. Castiel had been scolded as a young child for playing with the barn cats’ kittens and slipping them crumbs of roast and bits of cookies; making them dependent on human intervention. Animals were treated well, but they were not petted and loved the way Castiel’s are these days.

Since he first met Bobby’s dogs that cool spring day so long ago, Castiel’s perception of them had begun to shift. He’d learned that having a burly head on his knee was a nice thing and to scratch velvety ears in more than cursory praise for a job well done was also pleasant. Animals were one of the reasons Castiel chose to remain in the outside world because he’d mourned the idea of not being allowed something so simple as a _pet_ ; an animal to have solely for companionship and the enjoyment of that companionship.

He gets into his old truck and sighs, rubbing at his face, feeling the bristles of his beard under his palm, reminding him that he forgot to shave this morning. For that matter, he forgot to shower and eat breakfast, too. With a soft laugh, he pulls himself from memories of the past and turns the key in the ignition. He listens to the engine in his old pickup rumble to life and thinks that this truck has been his since he was sixteen as well. He’d used it to drive himself to school in the mornings after taking the tests to have himself placed in the correct grade since his education had officially ended in the eighth grade. It was in school that he had found a love for books even greater, perhaps, than his love of animals.

Some things change and still, others do not; even when they do. Change brings change, which brings sameness over time. Castiel’s eyes cross at that thought as he backs down the driveway. He is too tired for such deep thinking, he decides and reaches over to flip on the radio instead and half-listens to the morning DJ jabbering away about… something.

On his way he comes upon the familiar sight of a black buggy with an orange triangle in the back making its slow way down the roadside and has to move partly over the center line to pass them. He always tries not to look and he almost always does it anyway. This time is no exception and as he drives past the cart, he turns his head to look at the bearded man with the long leather reins clasped in his hands. The man looks back and gives a little wave that Castiel returns absently before looking back at the road.

He thinks that he’s just driven past his brother although he can’t be sure; Gabriel was only ten when Castiel left, but he’d almost swear it. There was no hint of recognition in the other man’s eyes though and that same old pit of sadness deep in Castiel’s belly gives a hard twist.

He moves through it, he’s been living with it for so long now that it almost doesn’t bother him anymore, at least not the way it used to. Turning up the radio to help distract himself, Castiel takes a deep breath and for a split second he thinks he smells burning leaves.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Castiel’s job at Singer Salvage is the only job he’s ever had. He’d left home with his mother’s kiss still moist on his cheek and fifty dollars in his pocket. There’d only been a handful of them from the community to leave that year because the previous year four members of the community had been killed in a head-on collision with a bread truck. The community had mourned and it had left the kids Castiel’s age more anxious than normal about the prospect of driving a car and leaving the wooden fences of their quiet community behind.

Castiel had not been one of those people though and hadn’t hesitated when his parents sat him down and asked if he wanted to leave and go out into the world. Even before the terrible accident not everyone had chosen that way. Some people chose to stay behind, perhaps going into the town in the clattering old junk cars kept locked in a barn for just such occurrences to mingle with the townies, but they came back in the evenings. There were always a few though who took the option of truly _leaving_ and living fully separate from their tight-knit community.

Castiel had been full of fancy ideas and big dreams that he’d picked up from things gleaned in magazines or on the television that was always on in the general store they went to occasionally for needed dry goods like sugar. His grand plan had been to go to New York City and live out _rumspringa_ in such a way that he would never forget it no matter how long he lived.

Things hadn’t gone exactly according to plan for Castiel and he’d made it about thirty miles away from home before the old clunker he was in died on the side of the road and left him stranded. He’d been alone, the only one of his group with _ideas_ that big; ideas about loud cities and horns blatting day and night. He had not the first clue about how to conduct himself in the world outside the Amish community without that support system to back him up. However, he’d still been determined as he walked down the road with his sweaty palms stuffed in the pockets of the thrift store jeans his mother had bought him to wear so he’d be able to dress English while he was away. His t-shirt had been too large, fanning around his skinny body in the rush of wind kicked up by a passing eighteen wheeler.

It was getting dark and Castiel’s resolve had started to abandon him, leaving him thinking that maybe he _would_ be better off to turn around and go back home. Then he’d seen the sign for Singer Salvage and he’d gone that way instead, walking down the rutted dirt lane in the failing light, thinking to ask for help with his car and perhaps a bed for the night.

Castiel supposes, when he looks back on it, that that is where everything really began for him. Bobby took him in and let him stay in a room upstairs with Castiel’s promise that he’d go to school and help him around the yard when he was finished with his homework. Castiel loved learning and had been sad when his official education had ended, so it wasn’t much of a surprise then that he’d found himself agreeing almost eagerly to Bobby’s conditions.

His very first evening there Castiel had learned the basics of changing spark plugs and had found he liked the smell of engine grease and motor oil even though he’d cut the crap out of his thumb and index finger trying to coax a particularly corroded plug out. While he’d sat on the back steps under the yellow glow of the porch light while Bobby bandaged his hand and bitched at him for being careless, Castiel had looked up at the sky and felt a little more at ease about leaving home.

Twenty years later, he still hasn’t made it to New York City, but he also still finds himself more at ease in the salvage yard than he does most other places.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He’s got sweat in his eyes and grease under his fingernails as he works on an engine block in an old Mustang, trying to determine if they can tune it up enough to run or if they need to strip it down for scrap. Reaching up, Castiel pushes the bill of his cap up enough to swipe at the sweat itching under the band and goes back to work. The yard is quiet, peaceful; the only thing around that Castiel can see is Junebug, Lot’s dam, sprawled in the dust off to his left, dreaming her hound dog dreams. Normally he can lose himself in his work, but today he’s just too tired and his mind keeps drifting to the past and his mother’s tear streaked face when she told him goodbye for the last time.

It makes him feel even more tired and lonelier than usual as he leans further under the hood to check some exhaust lines. They break under his lightly pressing fingers, crumbling with dry rot and he sighs. The body of the car is in surprisingly good condition, but the innards of it are another story altogether and Castiel thinks this is one they’re going to be stripping for scrap metal instead of fixing up.

“Well,” he says softly to himself, a little disappointed. He likes being able to _fix_ the cars; it’s why he became a mechanic in the first place, but sometimes they just can’t be saved. The towering, hulking walls of wrecked and stripped frames in the salvage yard attest to that well enough.

“Castiel? Boy, where are you?” Bobby’s voice cuts through the silence of the yard like the crack of a whip, startling both Castiel and the dog sprawled in the dust. Junebug snaps awake with a surprised _woof!_ and Castiel jumps, banging his head on the underside of the hood.

“Ow,” he says softly and rubs the back of his aching skull with a frown after he straightens up. “Over here, Bobby, with the Mustang!” he calls back and even from about two rows over he can hear Bobby grumping about the damned place being like a labyrinth, his voice carrying well as it bounces off all the metal stacked towards the sky.

It makes Castiel smile and then he yawns. He’s been at work for all of three hours and he already wants to go home and take a nap like some old man. Bobby would resent that thought, Castiel is pretty sure. He doesn’t think Bobby even really sleeps, much less _naps_. With another little smile, Castiel pulls the brim of his hat down a little more so he’s not squinting so bad in the bright sunlight and waits for Bobby to make his way over.

Just as Bobby rounds the corner with, “I tell you, I am going to tear all this crap down one day so I can find where I’m going,” there is a whooshing, rustling sound from the top of one of the towers of cars. It echoes and rattles through the yard, setting Junebug to barking again and startling Castiel and Bobby. When he looks up though, he doesn’t see anything at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Castiel’s day goes relatively better after the first bit, he hunkers down and gets lost in his work. Between him and Bobby, they determined the old Mustang would take too much time to ever try and rebuild the engine in it, so it gets demoted to being scrap. Castiel takes to the job reluctantly, but he gets absorbed in it after awhile, the sun beating down on his back through his worn work shirt and sweat soaking a dark ring around the bill of his MOPAR cap. The work seems to wake him up, the pull and strain of his muscles sliding under his skin feels good as he breaks the old car down into nothing but scattered parts.

Castiel was raised with the idea that if one did not work then they were good for nothing much really and it has stuck in his head as firmly as that first corroded spark plug had been in its socket. He goes at work with such a single-minded focus he soon loses track of the hours. It’s not until Dean comes to get him that Castiel realizes it is time to go home.

“Take a load off, dude,” Dean says as he leans against the trunk of the Mustang that’s up on blocks now. He’s brought two beers with him, one for himself and another for Castiel that he sets aside while Castiel wipes some of the grime off his hands.

“Yes, I think perhaps I should do that,” Castiel says. Now that he’s stopped he can feel the pleasant tremble of exhaustion in the muscles along his back and shoulders. He’s sweaty and a little out of breath as he pulls his handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his face and hands the best he can before he picks up the beer Dean set aside for him.

Dean’s looking around at the car and nodding appreciatively. “You’ve about got her torn down. Not too shabby,” he says.

Castiel makes a dismissive sound in his throat as he leans beside Dean. “I am still quicker than you,” he points out, amused by Dean’s expression.

“Not so,” he declares.

“Quite so,” Castiel says pleasantly and then sips his beer.

“Eh, what do you know,” Dean says, but he’s smiling a little bit, too.

“I believe I just said: I know I can break a car down for scrap faster than you,” Castiel replies.

Dean says nothing, just leans against him in the sun, the shadow of his own cap falling over his face. It would seem that living with Bobby they’ve picked up more than a love of working with cars, Castiel thinks as he readjusts his own hat. Bobby gave them each their first trucker caps and they’ve never stopped wearing them, though Dean’s do lean a bit more towards the vulgar and obscene—the one he’s currently wearing says, _Wine ‘em. Dine ‘em. 69 ‘em_. He seems to think they’re hilarious.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t come up to the house for lunch,” Dean says after a few minutes spent in companionable silence. “Bobby made his famous chili.”

“Please tell me you didn’t eat it,” Castiel says with a grimace. Bobby’s famous chili is more like _infamous_ and they both know that, they’ve been eating the stuff for years and have lived to regret it every time.

“What else was I gonna do? He doesn’t have anything else to eat,” Dean says and then belches. “God,” he complains and holds his belly.

“You should know better, Dean,” Castiel points out and Dean gives him an ugly look.

“I was hungry,” is his reasoning and Castiel shakes his head with another faint smile.

Dean’s been with Bobby since he was fourteen, after Bobby ran his father off from the place one morning with a shotgun and the promise to use it. John Winchester was a good man, but a bad drunk and though Castiel cannot say what, exactly, the argument had been about that morning, he thinks it probably had something to do with that and the split John’s hand had left in the center of Dean’s lip. It hadn’t been intentional, in all the times they’d come to visit, Castiel had never seen John strike Dean, but it had been drunken carelessness all the same. John had not been… _well_ , mentally speaking, Castiel supposes is the best way to put it and because of that, his son had suffered.

Of course that hadn’t stopped Dean from being furious with Bobby about making his dad leave. He’d not spoken to him for over two weeks and waited every night on the front doorsteps with his bags packed and ready to go, certain his father would come back for him. He never had and eventually Dean had fallen into place with Bobby and Castiel, both of them orphans in their own right. He’d willingly abandoned his home and his family and Dean’s family had willingly abandoned him. Dean had once told Castiel that he thought Bobby should change the yard’s name from Singer Salvage to Singer’s Home for Wayward Boys: We take your unwanted Amish and the kids of drunks.

Castiel had thought the latter part of the name needed some work. Dean had kicked him under the table where they’d sat playing cards. He’d agreed though, if not for Bobby, he often wonders what would’ve become of him and Dean all those years ago. But of course there had been Bobby, so such worries are quite unnecessary.

The thought makes Castiel smile fondly as he sips his beer while beside him, Dean belches and groans again. “ _Why?_ ” he says to himself and then belches once more.

“I won’t repeat myself,” Castiel says, referring to his earlier admonishments.

“Please don’t,” Dean says. “You wanna hang out for awhile tonight, play some cards or watch a movie?”

“I don’t think so, not this evening,” Castiel says with a shake of his head. “You and Bobby will have me run out of the house after an hour or so.”

“Bullshit, you’re used to it by now,” Dean says.

“Just because I am used to it doesn’t mean I want to inflict it upon myself,” Castiel says.

“Whatever,” Dean says and jostles him with an elbow. “You got a hot date or something tonight?”

Castiel has to laugh at that. “No, I do not have a date,” he says.

He’s _never_ had a date. High school was wonderful because it meant he got to learn, but he hadn’t exactly been popular, with his strange way of dressing and talking, his mannerisms that never quite _fit_ in with the general population of the school. His love for books and reading had made it even more difficult since apparently being a geek was a bad thing in the average American high school. Until Dean had come to live with them, Castiel had not made a single friend other than Bobby in his life in the outside world.

“So, what are you doing then that’s so important you can’t hang out with your two compadres?” Dean asks and jostles him with his elbow again. He wants company other than Bobby for a change, Castiel can tell it though Dean won’t come right out and say that. It would seem disloyal to Dean somehow to do that.

Dean is not so different than Castiel in that he doesn’t have many friends. He’s odd enough in his own way that people don’t take too well to him. Women like him a lot, but none of them ever stay and there is something sad in Dean’s eyes that never washes away no matter how big his smiles get. People are drawn to Dean’s pleasing looks, cocksure attitude and ready wit, but after awhile they drift away because they never really can get close to him either. Castiel often thinks there is more to Dean’s story than his mother dying young and his father being an alcoholic, but he doesn’t ask; if Dean ever wants him to know then he’ll tell him. Neither of them talk of their pasts often at all.

“I have to make a trip to the general store this evening,” Castiel says and Dean nods, he does know that much.

“Gotcha,” he says and lets it drop for real. “How about tomorrow then? We can go down to Maggie’s and watch the game after work, let the old man rest up.”

“That sounds like a plan, yes,” Castiel says with a nod and then turns his beer up to drain it. Pushing away from the car, he claps Dean affectionately on the back. “See you tomorrow, Dean.”

“You, too, Cas,” he calls and then belches again with a curse.

Castiel walks towards the end of the row, shoulders shaking with laughter. As he turns the corner something fluttering on the ground catches his attention and he stoops down for a closer look. It’s a grey feather, curled softly and caught on a bit of wire poking up through the dirt from some piece of long buried debris. Castiel picks it up and twirls it in his fingers. It looks a bit like an owl feather and is light and warm from the sun, shining with a soft blue sheen as Castiel turns it.

He absently sticks it in his pocket and continues walking to the front of the yard where his truck is parked beside Dean’s Impala, the only thing his father ever gave him. Castiel had gone to pick Dean up from school one day and when they’d come back, there the car had set like a big, sleek cat in the front yard. Dean had torn out of the truck before it had stopped and ran into the house, only to storm out a few minute later, angry tears and a hurt so deep in his eyes they’d looked like green jewel-wounds.

“The fucker didn’t stay,” Dean said. “Just left this and that was it.”

He’d kicked the Impala’s front bumper and then run off into the salvage yard; disappearing amongst the rusty towers. Castiel had made to follow, but Bobby had stopped him. “Let him go, son, he’ll come back,” he’d said, voice low with sorrow and anger.

Dean had indeed come back later that night, grimy and uncommunicative. The next day, the very same day Castiel had started technical school; Dean had announced he was dropping out of high school. Castiel had known it was just another way for Dean to sit on the front porch waiting for his daddy to come back for him. Castiel hadn’t told him that sometimes people never come back, just like sometimes they can never _go_ back; it’s all the same thing in the long run, no matter how you turn it. It’s horrible and scary and lonely, but it happens. The best thing to do is _make do_ because eventually it will get better. Not a hundred percent, but at least a little bit; enough that you can breathe.

Castiel thinks perhaps Dean understands that now, at least to some extent. He gives the old, black car one last glance, the sunset light glinting off its lovingly tended chrome and cranks his truck and pulls away for the day.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Hassek’s General Store sits on the line between what is generally considered Amish Territory and the town on the other side of it. Amish Territory isn’t any kind of official name, it’s just the edge of the county where most of the community lives and farms, their neat cabins and barns all set back behind trees from general view. It lies hidden away from those passing on the highway; all anyone can see are the neatly tilled fields and during the day, people out working in those fields. Castiel occasionally drives through there and with each passing year he feels like more of a neck-craning tourist. Except he _is_ looking for something more than just wanting to see the people. He looks for a peek of his father’s work-bowed back or his sister’s long blonde hair; the swish of his mother’s heavy black skirt. It’s just that he feels removed from that world; that pocket of reality he grew up in and chose not to return to.

The general store is where those worlds merge and mingle more than anywhere else and it’s a fair piece from where Castiel lives now to drive there and back home since he lives on the opposite side of the town. There are a few Amish living out his way, but they aren’t his people, not altogether a part of the community Castiel lived in. They trade amongst themselves a bit, but other than that they don’t really associate with one another. He thinks he chose his house for that reason—he can be close enough to the people he was born into, but it’s not the _same_ people. Sometimes his own logic escapes him, flutters away like a mad butterfly caught in a gust of air. Maybe the isolation, the shunning, has driven him a little crazy, but only a very little and he knows that, too.

Or maybe it’s because his isolation is not so complete as it once was. He comes here to this general store once a month to see if there is a letter or even a small package wrapped in plain cloth and tied with twine waiting for him. It’s been going on for years, since he turned around at his technical school graduation because he heard someone calling his name. His sister, Rachel, had been standing there, smiling and looking anxious, dressed English with sheer cherry-red lip gloss applied too thickly and her blonde hair streaked with pale lavender and bright blue.

She had grown up so fast, Castiel had thought, but he’d known her and he’d crossed the distance at a near run to scoop her up in a hug. “When did yours begin?” he’d asked her, breathing in the smell of marijuana smoke clinging to her skin and clothes.

“Two weeks ago,” she’d told him, laughing as she’d held him close. Then she’d pulled back and reached in her crocheted bag to hand him a slip of paper. “Mama asked me to give you this, but you mustn’t tell anyone, you know that.”

“Yes, I know,” Castiel had said as he’d unfolded the letter written on the back of a receipt from Hassek’s.

 _I hope you are well. I love you_ , is all it had said and Castiel had wept at the sight of those words in his mother’s handwriting.

“Nothing from father?” he’d asked Rachel who had shaken her head and looked down at her scuffed boots.

“I’m sorry, no,” Rachel said. “He did not even want me to take mine away from the community because of… because of…”

“Me,” Castiel had said and she’d just pursed her lips and nodded.

“Mama said for me to tell you that if you want to write her then leave your messages with Pale Tom at Hassek’s,” Rachel had told him. She’d hugged him once more and whispered, “Congratulations, _brother_ ,” fiercely in his ear. Then she’d pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before she’d disappeared into the crowd with a young man in a cowboy hat and a Danzig t-shirt.

Castiel still carries that first note in his wallet, behind his driver’s license and for years now, he’s been coming to check with Pale Tom to exchange correspondence with his mother and his sister, since she chose to return and marry so many years ago. He’d seen her one last time, the day before she’d gone back and they’d had a wonderful, but still sad, time and she’d promised to write as well.

“It’s not bad, Castiel, I don’t care what the elders say,” she’d told him standing on Bobby’s front porch. “ _You’re_ not bad.”

Then she’d been gone and after that, Castiel had been left alone aside from scribbled notes and small animals carved from wood that he’d loved as a child and it seemed his mother remembered that. He always comes late in the evening, not long before the store closes for the night and because he spent some time talking to Dean before leaving the salvage yard, Castiel is nearly too late. Pale Tom is at the door, fingers on the open/closed sign and about to turn it over to read CLOSED when Castiel steps onto the narrow porch that runs the length of the store’s front.

He taps once and Pale Tom regards him through the glass, squinting to see Castiel in the bad light. Once he recognizes him, he unlocks the door for him to come in. “Thank you,” Castiel tells him and Pale Tom nods once.

“Almost missed me,” Tom says and then motions for Castiel to follow him into the back office. “It’s been here about three days now.”

He’s a large, quiet man and as pale as his name suggests. Castiel had finished high school with Pale Tom Hassek and while they hadn’t been friends, they’d both had a sort of camaraderie; the kind that comes from being the two biggest freaks in school—the albino and the bookworm. His family has owned Hassek’s since time out of mind and once Pale Tom graduated high school, he’d gone straight to helping his parents run the place. They both retired not long after and by the time Rachel found Castiel at his graduation it had been only Tom running the place. Some way or another, Castiel’s mother had learned at least enough to make her decide Pale Tom was trustworthy as their go-between.

The poor light of the office throws long, wavery shapes up on the wall and Castiel looks around at them, remembering something about the wind-whipped shadows from the trees in his backyard swaying along his bedroom walls. Then he blinks and the recollection is gone again. Tom’s rummaging in his filing cabinet, feeling behind one of the shelves and the way he’s standing, the light is falling through his long, white eyelashes and casting ghostly shadows on his bleached white cheeks. Castiel finds himself staring a little bit, fascinated as ever by the tall, white-white man.

When Tom turns around, Castiel blinks at the sight of his pinkish eyes and clears his throat. He didn’t mean to stare like that, he knows it’s rude, but Tom is just so _different_. He seems to take Castiel’s staring in stride though; by now he’s got to be used to a lot of people staring at him, so he just hands Castiel two little notes, one of which is pinned to a brown cloth-wrapped bundle.

“Here you go, Castiel,” Tom says.

Castiel takes it and puts the notes in his pocket to read later, but he unties the string and opens the package right there. Tom likes the little carved figures he’s learned and he doesn’t mind sharing that part of it.

He unfolds the coarse cloth, probably cut from a piece of feedbag; Castiel would guess and looks down at the figurine of a crow sitting on a branch in his palm. The bottom of the carving has been smoothed off so it will sit flat and Castiel rubs his thumb over it. It is beautifully worked with excellent attention to detail; the crow has even been stained black with charcoal or soot. Castiel’s mother, Johanna, is one of the few women in the community who does whittle or carve and she does lovely work. Castiel has often thought that if she’d lived in the outside world she could’ve been an artist.

“It’s beautiful,” Tom says and Castiel nods, fighting the urge to lift it up to his nose and smell it.

Sometimes it strikes him down like a slap from a giant, the sacrifice he made with his choice not to return. The hole that is mostly closed up and small in him nowadays will open like a great, yawning mouth in his chest and it is all he can do not to sob when that happens. It usually passes as quickly as it comes though and this time is no different, all that remains is a wash of melancholy that will follow him home and to bed tonight, but it’ll likely be gone again in the morning. It has gotten _easier_ , but it has never gotten _easy_.

He reaches into the pocket of his trench coat for the notes he brought along as well and starts to pass them to Tom. Thinking better of it, he lets Tom take the one for Rachel, but he withdraws the one meant for his mother and says, “Just a moment.”

Castiel slips his hand in the pocket of his dirty jeans and feels for the owl feather he found at the salvage yard. When he finds it, he unfolds his note and places the feather in it, marveling again for a moment at the peculiar blue sheen of it before he refolds the letter. He can’t send his mother or Rachel things like they occasionally send him, but he can give his mother the feather at least; she loves birds and that’s the best he can offer as a birthday gift.

Tom takes it when Castiel is done and places it in the same drawer he’d pulled Castiel’s received correspondence from and slides it shut, locking it when he’s done. He really is incredibly trustworthy, his mother had chosen him well and for that, Castiel is grateful. If anyone ever found out about what his mother and sister are doing—communicating with a shunned family member—they’d be shunned as well and he hates the thought of that.

“I should be going, on my way over I heard on the radio that a storm is blowing in from the north tonight,” Castiel says. “I’d like to beat it home if I can.”

“Yeah, heard about that on the news,” Tom says. “Bringing in a cold front, weatherman said it’s likely to be in the fifties by morning.”

“Heard that, too,” Castiel says and nods. “Thank you again, Tom and I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

“I’ll look for you then,” Tom says.

“Yes, goodnight,” Castiel says and shows himself out, Tom bringing up the rear to lock up behind him.

Once outside, Castiel takes a deep breath and reaches into his pocket to touch the two notes there, waiting to be read once he’s home. With one more deep breath, Castiel steps off the porch and walks back to his truck, that shade of melancholy hanging around him like a translucent shroud.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Castiel is nearly home when the first fat drops of rain splat against his windshield. Initially it’s only a random pattering, but after about a mile it’s an honest-to-goodness downpour and Castiel is inching along the highway, leaning close to the windshield to try and see. He needs to change his wiper blades, has needed to, but a mechanic’s vehicle is usually a sorry sight and Castiel’s is no different. He keeps the old blue and white Chevy running smooth as can be, him and Dean have spent many a Saturday under the truck’s hood, drinking beer and shooting the breeze. But there are minor things—such as realigning his headlights, changing his wiper blades or fixing the window handle on the passenger side that’s gotten ridiculously stuck—that simply slip under Castiel’s radar.

By the time he’s eight miles from home he has slowed to a crawl and is considering pulling over onto the shoulder to wait out some of the storm’s ferocity. He’s swerving already, not doing much better than a drunkard because his visibility is so low. If he didn’t know the road well, Castiel is almost certain he’d have been in the ditch by now. Lightning streaks across the sky in a blinding arc, blue-violet-white that seems like it cracks heaven wide open and Castiel instinctively taps the brakes as spots dance in his vision. The echoing rumble of thunder that follows rolls across the earth and he can feel the vibration of it in his steering wheel.

He clears his eyes just in time for another, less intense burst of light and that’s when he sees him. He’s walking down the side of the road in his long, black coat, soaked through and through, merely wandering along like he’s out for an evening stroll, face tilted up to the falling rain. He stops though when Castiel draws nearly even with him and turns to look directly into his eyes. Castiel’s stomach lurches at the weight of that unwavering gaze when, with another of those faint smiles he remembers from the town square, the stranger lifts a hand and sticks out his thumb.

Castiel has thought it once and he thinks it again at the sight of the almost mocking gesture: _This man is insane_. Yet, he finds himself pulling over onto the muddy shoulder of the road anyway and leaning over to unlock the door. The man gets in just as Castiel has moved back to his side of the truck and slams the door against the pummeling sound of the rain beating the earth.

He’s drenched, his shaggy dark hair hanging in strings across his face and he’s going to get the upholstery of the seat soaked. Castiel is already thinking what a foolhardy idea it was for him to stop and let this strange man into his vehicle. However, he believes in charity, Bobby’s kindnesses over the years have taught him that it is better to be kind and take a risk than it is to abandon someone in need. It would’ve been going against his nature and all that he has learned to have left the man standing there, misgivings about him or not.

The man folds his hands serenely in his lap and looks at Castiel with a smile. “Thank you,” he says and then turns to look out the rain-washed windshield.

Castiel thinks of pearls buried in a mask of shadows and frowns, but says, “You are welcome.”

He pulls away from the shoulder to begin inching his way down the road again. The man sitting next to him smells of ozone and clean water, the scent of him; the _presence_ of him, fills up the cab of the truck. Castiel cuts his eyes to the side to look at the man again and in the dim light from the truck’s console lights, Castiel can see that the dust on his coat has turned to mud in the deluge.

It occurs to him that he is taking the man home with him simply because he has given him no other directions. Clearing his throat politely, Castiel asks, “Where are you going?”

The man turns to look at him again and tilts his head slightly, curiously. “Where are _you_ going?” he parrots back.

“I… I am going home,” Castiel says. “To my home,” he adds as though to clarify what was already obvious.

“Then I am going there,” the man says and Castiel freezes, almost stomping on the brake in the rain. All that would do is send him fishtailing across the highway and knowing that is what keeps him from doing it.

“I don’t think that is… wise,” Castiel says. “Certainly there is somewhere I can take you; somewhere you’d prefer to go.”

The man is quiet for a long stretch and Castiel is drawing ever nearer to his house. He should make the man get out of his truck, that is what he should do and he knows it, yet… yet he does not really want to do that. He can’t explain it, but for some reason he doesn’t want him to go. It makes no sense, the man makes him uncomfortable, his stillness and way of speaking unnerves Castiel. And still, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to the enigma with the young face and old eyes sitting beside him in his truck, stinking of rainwater and lightning and under all of that, just the faintest whiff of old books; the kind with pages yellowed by age.

“No,” the man says and shakes his head slowly, water streaming from his hair to run down his face. It is painted blue-green in the dash lights, making it look as though he is bleeding electricity from a hundred wounds. “There is nowhere else for me to be.”

“Are you without a home?” Castiel asks and he does feel bad then, perhaps even a little guilty. Why else would someone be out walking on such a night unless they had no place to go? It makes sense now.

The man beside him says nothing and Castiel can see his white mailbox in the headlights now. It is time for him to make a decision. He decides almost at once to allow the man a night at his home. He can’t leave him out to the mercy of the elements; to turn him away would be like spitting in the face of all the generosity he has been afforded by others.

“You may stay with me for the night, if you’d like,” Castiel says.

“Yes, I think I may,” the man says and he smiles again. Castiel notices that he has a nice smile; it lights up his otherwise solemn features.

Castiel reaches his driveway and turns down it, bumping along the washed out ruts caused by the rain. Once he is parked under the carport, he lets out a sigh of relief and offers up a small prayer in thankfulness for making it home in one piece given the severity of the weather. He kills the truck, takes the keys out of the ignition and then sits there for a moment, listening to the almost deafening racket the rain is making on the tin roof of the carport. He can just make out the ticking sound the engine makes as it cools. He’s still got one hand on the steering wheel and his passenger is sitting beside him, silent and patient.

Something occurs to Castiel and he turns to look at the man and says, “What is your name?”

“My name is Sam,” he says and turns again to offer his hand. “I was wondering if you were ever going to ask.”

Castiel takes his offered hand and is shocked by the warmth of that big palm against his. He would’ve thought that it would be chilled from the cold autumn rain, but it’s warm and alive, still wet from all the water, against Castiel’s own dry and calloused palm.

“Pleased to meet you,” Castiel says for want of anything better to say. His social skills are usually better than this, but he’s completely at a loss where Sam is concerned. He simply doesn’t know what to make of him at all. “I’m Castiel.”

Sam nods and Castiel suddenly lets go of his hand and opens his door, remembering that he left Lot out to play in the backyard while he was gone for the day. His poor dog is going to be half-drowned in this mess and he feels like a cad for not thinking about that. The roar of the rain and wind fills up the truck cab as he slides from his seat, but as his feet touch the ground, he thinks he hears Sam say, “I know.”

He motions for Sam to come on while he hurries to his side door that leads through the utility room to go inside and get his dog. He grabs a towel from a shelf over the washing machine and goes on into the main part of the house without bothering to turn on any lights. The utility room leads into the kitchen and that’s where the backdoor is, so it’s a pretty straight shot.

Lot is already on the stoop when he opens the door, shivering, wet and miserable sitting there. Then he sees Castiel and leaps on him, whining and licking at him, getting him wet and smearing his clothes with mud to go with the grease and red dirt from the salvage yard.

“Yes, hello boy, I’m so sorry I’m late,” Castiel says as he eases his big paws off his shoulders to dry him.

Lot chuffs and shivers while Castiel dries him off and for a little while he forgets about Sam. But midway through drying his dog, he remembers and stands up to see if he’s come inside yet.

“Sam?” Castiel says, looking around the dark interior of his house.

There is no one else there; he knows that as sure as he knows the sky is blue. The house is silent but for the soft sound of Lot licking his wet paws and Agriope sitting on the counter beside Castiel, purring softly and waiting to be petted.

Brows drawing together in puzzlement, Castiel goes to the light switch by the kitchen door and flips it on. The room is bathed in warm, yellow light, but aside from him and his pets, the kitchen is empty. He goes through the utility room next and finds the same then he backtracks to the living room in case Sam went around him while he was drying Lot.

“Hello?” Castiel says and tilts his head, listening to the faint echo of his voice. “Okay then,” he says to himself and goes back through the utility room and outside again under the carport, thinking perhaps Sam didn’t see him gesture for him to follow and is still waiting in the truck.

He turns on that light as well and even standing in the doorway he can tell the truck is empty unless Sam thinks he was meant to sleep out there for the night and has lain down. Castiel feels a bit bad about that, thinking that if he was misunderstood or Sam missed his gesture, that may well be what he’s done. Sam was soaked and he must be freezing, he needs dry clothes and a dry bed to sleep in, not Castiel’s old truck seat where his long body will be cramped and uncomfortable.

So he steps outside and opens the driver’s side door, an apology and invitation to please come inside and warm up already on his lips. But when the dome light comes on, the truck is empty as well. All that remains of Sam’s presence is the smell of ozone and dusty books. When Castiel leans inside the truck to touch the seat for a reason he cannot explain, it is dry as a chip and he snatches his hand back like he’s been burned.

Stepping back, he closes the truck door and walks to the edge of the carport where water is sluicing from the roof like a moving curtain. “Sam!” Castiel calls, hands cupped around his mouth to help carry his voice. “Sam!”

He turns in a semicircle, but he can barely see anything in the darkness made deeper by the heavy clouds overhead. Castiel stands there dumbly, hands in the pockets of his muddy trench coat, peering into the darkness, rain blowback leaving his face wet and cold, droplets dripping from the brim of his cap.

“Sam!” he calls one last time just as lightning flickers across the sky, turning Castiel’s yard into a strobe light disco of waterlogged trees and grass shining like bright-dark glass from the wetness.

There is nothing else there and with a shake of his head, Castiel goes back inside. He half wonders if he imagined the whole thing even though he thinks he can still smell book dust and the hair on the back of his neck is prickling.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The rest of Castiel’s evening goes quietly as the storm continues to rage outside. He feeds his pets, making sure he’s got them shut up in separate rooms—Lot in the utility room and Agriope in the kitchen—to keep them from nosying into one another’s bowls. He fixes his own supper, a sad affair of leftover coffee from that morning, niblets corn and a ham and cheese sandwich with a Drumstick cone for dessert. The Drumstick cone is undoubtedly the best part of the meal, he thinks with a pleased smile as he picks the chocolaty shell off the top with his teeth. After that, he takes a shower, making sure he gets every last smudge and smear of dirt and grease off his hands, cleaning under his nails fastidiously. Cleanliness is next to godliness, Castiel remembers; he was taught that from the time he could understand speech.

He reads the letters from his mother and sister next, sitting on the end of his sofa with his hair still dripping because he didn’t towel it off well enough. The letter from his mother is short as ever, but warm: _You are in my prayers as always and I hope life is being kind to you. I love you._

Rachel’s is much longer—three pages longer—and far more gossipy. If their mother knew how much his sister wagged her tongue she would be appalled. Gossip is highly frowned upon and he thinks that Rachel saves all of the juiciest bits to tell him in her letters; she needs an outlet and that outlet is Castiel. He doesn’t judge her, far from it. While he doesn’t take part in actively gossiping very often, he’s always happy to listen and his two closest friends gossip more than any man has a right to, he thinks with a fond smile as he reads over her words. She tells him all about Gabriel’s wife and how she has bad breath and isn’t terribly nice: _Mother and father won’t say anything, but I know they don’t like her. Good for them, too! I can’t stand the ~~bitch~~ hussy myself._

“Oh, Rachel,” Castiel says and laughs until there are tears running down his cheeks. His sister always has had a temper and still, seeing her use such a naughty word when she should know better cracks him up to no end. That she scratched it out the second she wrote it most likely only makes him laugh more until his heart is aching and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself.

She goes on to tell him that their youngest sister—so young he has never even met her—Anna, is expecting her first child and that she says she hopes it will be a son, but Rachel knows she really wants a daughter. _She’s only saying that because that’s all anyone_ thinks _you should have_ , Rachel explains in her letter. Castiel has gathered over the years that Rachel and her husband cannot conceive even though they’ve tried to the point she could’ve screamed in frustration over her husband’s… _insistence_. He has also gathered that Rachel never particularly wanted children and is glad in a way that she’s never had any.

Castiel’s cloak of melancholy settles down on him even more snugly when he reads the last line of her letter: _Oh, how I wish I could see you, brother!_ He refolds the notes and puts them in the wooden box on the end table by the sofa where he keeps them all then sits there with his hands clasped between his knees for awhile, simply focusing on the in-out rhythm of his breath. Once he’s feeling steadier, he gets up and places the carving of the soot-blackened crow on the shelf where all of his other carved animals reside.

He reads a book for a little while after that, but he can’t really focus on the pages. Now that he’s done with the routine stuff and the familial correspondence, his mind his free to wander. It keeps wandering right back to Sam and how very _odd_ it all is; how odd _Sam_ is. Castiel has seen him twice now unexpectedly and both times Sam has seemed to vanish right into thin air, which is not possible and is a completely illogical thing to think. Castiel, who has always prided himself on his logical, rational nature cannot seem to shake the idea though and that makes him grump softly to himself—another Bobby-ism he’s picked up—as he sits in his chair, staring down at his book. But still, it begs the questions: Where did Sam even come _from_? And perhaps more importantly, where does he go _to_?

The strangest thing of it all is how Sam seems to have taken an uncanny interest in Castiel, albeit an uncanny interest filled with rather abrupt departures from his company. He leaves Castiel feeling out of his element and vaguely disturbed with his presence, something about Sam is not quite… right… to him and yet, he’s drawn to him because Sam is mysterious. Castiel has always loved a good mystery and cannot help himself there either, he wants to investigate and explore Sam; find out what makes the giant of a man tick even though he frightens Castiel a little bit. Of course that’s part of the thrill of the unknown—fear, which leads to anticipation and it all works to feed Castiel’s burning curiosity about _everything_. He also wonders if Sam is alright outside in all the wind and rain, the forks of lightning licking through the static-charged air.

At long last the clock on the mantle chimes ten o’clock and Castiel marks his place in the book he’s not read a word of tonight and gets up to go brush his teeth before bed. Once he’s in bed, despite how tired he is after a long day and a restless night’s sleep before, Castiel lies wide awake, tossing and turning. Finally he flops over onto his back with a huff, folds his hands over his belly and watches the shadows of the rain on the windows running down his bedroom walls. The storm is still going strong, roaring through the night and tearing it to tatters with its fury and he recollects how his grandmother told him that storms like this were all of God’s angels weeping and mourning over the sins of mankind.

Now that he’s older and farther removed from that life, Castiel thinks his grandmother’s little tale was a bit morbid and unfair. He knows humanity is cruel, but he’s seen so much good as well that he cannot imagine that all of God’s angels would weep with such raw sorrow. His grandmother more than anyone really, save maybe his father, had feared the outside world, but she’d disguised that fear as scorn and contempt.

Her admonitions that the world outside their community was a bad place, full of scary people and thieving cutthroats had only made Castiel more determined to venture beyond their neat fencerows to see for himself. If she was still alive he’s certain his grandmother would claim the Devil had gotten him and good. In the dark, Castiel blinks and laughs softly to himself at his thoughts and knows that it was not the Devil. It wasn’t one thing at all; it was many little things which culminated into a whole that led him to choose this world and not the world of the Amish.

Lot, hearing his laughter, rouses himself from the little rug he sleeps on and comes over to prop his speckled head on the side of the mattress to investigate. Castiel reaches out and pets him, tips of his fingers caressing his broad coonhound head. “All is well,” Castiel assures him as he scratches behind each of Lot’s ears in turn. “I am tired and wandering in the past again. I do that, you know.”

Lot yawns hugely and then smacks, treating Castiel to warm gust of dog breath that has him wrinkling his nose. “You are, as always, very helpful in these matters,” he tells the dog before gently pushing him away. “Go lay down now.”

The dog moves away reluctantly and Castiel sighs as he watches the rain shadows continuing to slither across his walls. Lightning crashes and somewhere in the distance he hears a muted _boom!_ then a louder _crack!_ It’s hit a tree then and he sincerely hopes it has not landed on anyone’s home.

He listens to the rain, the sounds of his own breathing and the small noises his pets make in their sleep. Sometime or other Agriope abandons her perch in the windowsill and hops into bed with Castiel, curling up in a tight ball at his side, her soft purring humming against his body.

Castiel is in the middle of remembering his first barn raising and the celebration that followed when sleep sneaks up on him. His thoughts get muddled as he slips under without realizing it at all and somehow or another, Dean and Bobby are there and it’s not a barn raising, it’s a unicorn auction, of all things, down by the pond behind his family’s home. Dean is arguing with Castiel’s Great Uncle Zachariah over something and the fields are golden with wheat all around them. In the background of it all, like a distant echo, thunder roars across the sky even though it is blue-blue-blue and Castiel looks up. Coming through the stalks of wheat in his long black coat is Sam and he’s smiling that smile of his that says he knows _so many_ secrets.

Castiel’s head lolls slightly to one side as his half-waking dreams fade to the blackness of true sleep and from beside him, Agriope rises to peer curiously through the slats of Castiel’s headboard out the window behind him. She arches her back and hisses at something in the night then moves to lie down beside her Person again, scooting closer to him, bright amber eyes open and watchful.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sometime before dawn, when the sky is still dark and the storm is still howling through the night, Lot wakes Castiel barking again. He comes to with a start, eyes popping open and he turns his head, looking in the direction of the dog. Instead he sees Sam lit up by a flare of lightning from outside. He’s standing just inside Castiel’s bedroom door and he’s drenched again, dripping water all over the floor and his skin is silky looking with moisture.

Castiel wants to yell at him to get out or at the very least to ask him _what he is doing there_ , but he doesn’t speak. He watches as Sam moves toward his bed and realizes that his boots make no sound on the floor as he does so. Sam’s smiling again, but this is a kinder smile, the smile he saw earlier in his truck that makes Sam look so young. He reaches the side of Castiel’s bed and crouches there next to it, looking at Castiel who is watching him back with wide eyes.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Sam says. It’s the same thing he said to Castiel in the town square.

“What are you doing here?” Castiel asks, ignoring what Sam’s saying because what else _should_ he be if not afraid? Except he is still really _not_.

“You said I could stay the night,” Sam says and tilts his head to study Castiel from a different angle.

“But you… you _disappeared_ ,” Castiel says back.

“I didn’t go far,” Sam tells him and shuffles closer to the side of the bed, close enough Castiel can smell the rain-ozone-book dust scent of him. Coldness and warmth are what those two smells are to Castiel. “I thought I would come inside though. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see you.”

He feels like he is being toyed with—like he is being _fucked with_ , as Dean would say—and easy as that, he’s tired of this. He wants answers or at least _an_ answer to the most important question of any he may have regarding Sam. Castiel loves mysteries and puzzles, but he doesn’t love strange vagabonds slipping into his house in the dead of night.

“Who are you?” Castiel demands, finally getting a little angry about all of this. He pushes himself up into a sitting position to look down at Sam because even crouching, he’s still far taller than Castiel since he was lying down.

Sam looks up at Castiel with that _other_ smile on his face now. “No one,” he says so softly it’s but a puff of breath rounded out with vowels.

“Who are you?” Castiel repeats his question. He will not be put off by vagaries, but Sam shakes his head and rises to his full height.

“I’m the one who listened,” Sam says that time and Castiel narrows his eyes at that.

He rarely gets angry, perhaps frustrated or a tad bit irritated, but not _angry_. However, right now he is getting furious and he realizes that Lot is still barking. He can just see his dog, backed into a corner by the closet barking like the world is ending and Castiel can see white flecks of foam flying from his jaws like phosphorescent sparks in the darkness.

“That is not an answer!” Castiel snaps at him.

“I know,” Sam says and sighs like he’s so, so tired he could just lay down and sleep right there. “But it’s the truth.”

“Listening to _what_ then?” Castiel says as he starts to rise from the bed.

He freezes when Sam’s big, warm hand touches his face and curves around his cheek. He strokes the hollow of Castiel’s eye with his thumb softly and looks at him. In the blue-white glare of the lightning that again cracks across the sky, Castiel thinks he looks almost wistful. He wants to pull away from him, but there is something magnetic in Sam’s touch that has Castiel staying right where he is.

Castiel watches as Sam reaches out with his other hand when he makes to speak again and presses his index finger to Castiel’s lips. “ _Shhhhh_ ,” Sam says.

Castiel can hear Lot barking-barking-barking in his dreams where someone is laying beside him, close, but not quite touching. He can feel their breath warm on the back of his neck and he rolls towards that presence, letting himself be wrapped up in arms that feel like rivers.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Castiel’s alarm clock goes off the next morning he is laying on his back in the same position he fell asleep in. He blinks and listens to the birds singing merrily outside, heralding the passing of the rain and washed clean shine of everything around them. He rolls over to turn off his alarm and then yawns and stretches. He feels much more rested than he did the previous day and wonders with a vague sense of amusement if this morning he will remember to eat breakfast.

Lot comes over to greet him and manages to lick him right across the face before he can escape. He wipes away the slobber with a grimace and a bleary-eyed scolding look at the dog who is already bounding from the room, ready to go outside and potty. Agriope is standing in the bedroom doorway, romancing the doorframe and meowing in her sad little _meep_ voice for her breakfast.

“A moment, I beg you,” Castiel says with a sleepy smile as he sits up in bed to stretch again.

His movement disturbs something in the covers and he frowns as it puffs up from the blankets and then slowly drifts back down to land beside his left hand. With a puzzled murmur, Castiel picks up the brown feather that he shook loose from the bedclothes and holds it up to the light to look at it better. It flares with a shine like polished bronze and gold against its rich, earthy brown and deep buff bands. Castiel twirls it to watch it flash and wink in the light, pleased with how lovely it truly is to look at; how incredibly pretty and uncommon. It looks like a hawk feather, maybe an eagle, he’s not sure, but their feathers don’t shine at all if he’s remembering properly. It shouldn’t have been in his bed either way unless…

“Agriope, have you killed some creature and left it lying around for me to find?” Castiel asks the cat who replies with an even more insistent _meep-meep_.

Of course it wouldn’t be a hawk or an eagle then, but Castiel could be mistaken about the type of bird the feather belongs to. Then he looks at the feather again and deems it too long to’ve belonged to something his tiny little tabby cat could’ve killed either way. It’s actually quite a large feather, a tail feather perhaps, even though he still doesn’t know where it came from. It could be something either the cat or the dog found and then came inside with that he didn’t notice though. Likely the cat since she has a door to come and go through as she pleases.

Rising, Castiel says, “Ah, well,” figuring the mystery is solved and lays the feather aside on the nightstand where it gleams like a burning gem in the morning sun.

He does remember to eat breakfast that morning after he’s tended to the animals. Since his supper wasn’t much to speak of and the only thing he ate the day before, Castiel takes the time to make himself a big breakfast of fried ham, scrambled eggs and hoecakes with syrup. By the time he leaves, he’s showered, caffeinated and verging on uncomfortably full.

“Gluttony is a sin,” he tells Agriope as he gives her the usual farewell scratch on the head.

She meeps at him and runs to her food bowl and Castiel laughs. Animals care nothing for sin; he thinks that he should take a page out of their book sometime. Shaking his head at his own strange thoughts, Castiel goes outside to his truck. It still smells of rain and ozone; of yellowed book pages and he breathes in deeply, yet again wondering where Sam got off to the night before.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When he arrives at the salvage yard, Dean is sitting on the front porch steps drinking a beer and Castiel frowns worriedly. There are many times he has thought that Dean’s taken after his father too much in that regard.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says and tilts to the left a bit and Castiel’s frown deepens. Yes, he’s taken after his father far too much for his own good indeed. “Mornin’.”

Dean looks haggard sitting there, bruised circles under his eyes and Bobby is sitting behind him in a rocking chair that’s turned silver-grey with age and weather.

“Good morning,” Castiel says as he steps up onto the porch, careful not to jostle against Dean. The tail of his trench coat slides over Dean’s face despite his efforts and Dean flails a little bit, asking who turned out the lights.

He gives Bobby a look and Bobby just shakes his head, getting up to follow him as Castiel goes inside to get another cup of coffee. “Started up sometime this morning,” he says while Castiel pours his coffee. Outside he can hear Dean singing Motörhead at the top of his lungs and terribly off-key.

“He does that sometimes,” Castiel says as he stirs creamer into his coffee. Castiel is understating it by far, but he thinks maybe this story is best left told in its own time without him pushing it. “What was it this time?”

“I don’t know,” Bobby says and leans against the counter with a sigh as he straightens his Plymouth cap. “Woke me up beating on his own bedroom door like he thought he couldn’t get out. Was talking about… About stuff that’s best left alone, I reckon.”

Castiel nods and although he means to keep his stance on not pushing things, he doesn’t like all of this mystery about Dean. It would seem contradictory and it probably is, but both sides of the coin are minted from the same thing—concern and worry about Dean who took to drinking by the time he was fifteen or so and has had terrible nightmares the whole time Castiel has known him. Only the past couple of years has the drinking begun to be something to worry about though.

“I… do not know what to say,” Castiel says and then blows the steam away from his coffee.

“I know, son and don’t worry about it,” Bobby tells him. “Dean’s just a messed up kid that’s all.”

“As am I,” Castiel points out.

“Yeah, but you ain’t messed up like that one’s messed up,” Bobby says as outside Dean starts singing something by Led Zeppelin. “Between you two idjits though I got more than my fair share of grey hairs.”

“I am thinking that advanced age has more to do with your graying hair than we do,” Castiel says, gently teasing him and smiling at Bobby’s glare.

“I swear, to look so damned nice and unassuming on the outside, you’ve got one hell of a smart ass mouth on you,” Bobby says.

Castiel smiles at him and sips his coffee. “I’ve had good teachers.”

Bobby laughs at that and says, “I guess you have, now get on out there and finish breaking down that Mustang. I got a Chrysler needs your attention when you’re done with that.”

“What about Dean?” Castiel asks.

Bobby snorts. “I figure he’s due to pass out soon enough and if he don’t then I’ll just knock him over the head. He needs to sleep.”

“That he does,” Castiel agrees. “He mentioned going to Maggie’s tonight, but I suppose that’s out of the question now.”

Again, Bobby snorts. “You wish, give him a few hours sleep and he’ll be dragging you off to that bar in a headlock.”

“I know,” Castiel says and sips his coffee again. “I enjoy our outings, but social clubs still aren’t… my “thing”.”

“Neither is using the appropriate twenty first century words either, but it ain’t never stopped you before,” Bobby says. “You both need a friend and you’re about all the other one’s got.”

“I know and it’s not bad, I just wish he preferred places that were a bit less…” Castiel trails off, searching for the word and Bobby supplies him with, “Peopled?”

“I am not unsocial,” Castiel says.

“No, but you are a little inept,” Bobby counters with an affectionate tug on the bill of Castiel’s cap. “Now go do what I told you to do and stop stalling.”

“I do not stall,” Castiel tells him as he walks away and from behind him, Bobby chuckles.

Outside, Dean has lain down on the porch and is humming under his breath and Castiel has to step over him to reach the doorsteps. “Maggie’s tonight, don’t forget,” he slurs after Castiel. He raises a hand to acknowledge he’s heard and remembers, but he keeps walking so that Dean can finish passing out like he needs to do.

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time Castiel is ready to leave for the day, Dean is up and around again. He doesn’t even seem hungover; he’s all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, just as Bobby predicted he would be. Castiel is still under the hood of the Chrysler Bobby wanted him to look at, attaching chains to the engine block to lift it out of the car when Dean sneaks up on him and taps out a quick rhythm on the car’s raised hood.

“You ready to go?” Dean asks as Castiel jerks out from under the hood. Thankfully he didn’t bang his head this time, but between Dean and Bobby both having a knack for startling him while he’s doing things such as that, Castiel is sometimes surprised he’s not sustained more serious head injuries over the years.

“Dean, of course I am not ready,” Castiel says and gestures at his dirty clothes. Dean sips at his beer, shrugs and passes one to Castiel as well.

“Just put on that goofy old coat of yours and call it good,” Dean suggests helpfully. Patience is not and never has been one of his virtues.

“I will do no such thing,” Castiel says and then adds, “There is nothing _goofy_ about my coat.”

“That thing makes you look like some pedo redneck trying to play it cool,” Dean tells him and Castiel throws a grease rag in his face for the trouble.

Dean plucks the rag away and scrubs at his face with the back of his hand. “I’m just saying.”

“You are always just saying and I am always not listening,” Castiel says as he picks up the coat in question from the work bench it was draped over. “Now I am going home to take a shower. You are welcome to come with me or I can come back and pick you up here.”

“Or we could just meet at Maggie’s,” Dean says and Castiel shakes his head.

“No, I am driving,” he says because he knows Dean will get hopelessly soused at the bar and Castiel doesn’t want him trying to drive back to Bobby’s in such a state. “Now that I think about it, we can take your vehicle and leave mine here that way I can retrieve it when we come back.”

“Whatever, dude,” Dean says and walks around him. “Come on then, princess; let’s get you home so you can shower.”

“I also need to feed Lot and Agriope,” Castiel says, falling into step beside him and twisting the cap off his own beer.

“I still say you gave your pets some messed up names,” Dean says.

“I still say you know nothing,” Castiel says a tad defensively. His pets have perfectly nice names. Dean elbows him in the ribs and Castiel grunts then elbows him back.

Bobby is sitting on the front porch again and watching them with a smile as they get into the Impala after a brief, but polite (at least on Castiel’s end) argument over who is driving to Castiel’s home.

Castiel wins.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Maggie’s is a long, narrow place sitting on the outskirts of town—Castiel’s side of town, that is. It was a dance hall back in the 1950s and on into the early 70s, but after the great blizzard of ’75 it shut down. Maggie and her husband, RJ, repaired it and opened the place back up in 1997 and it’s been going strong as a bar and pool hall ever since.

It is loud, smoky and altogether definitely not Castiel’s kind of place. He likes libraries and parks; the salvage yard with its acres of junked out cars and rust-stained dirt. Dean loves places like this though and in order to appease him, Castiel relents and accompanies him here occasionally. He usually finds a table near the back and sits there, watching the people on the floor dancing and the others playing pool, all with a steadily increasing lack of coordination as the night wears on. While Castiel does not like the noise and bustle of Maggie’s, he does enjoy people-watching a great deal. He wonders sometimes if he watches more than he ever participates because even now he still feels like he doesn’t quite fit in.

He is sitting at his “usual” table in the back of the bar, a wobbly thing pushed into a corner mostly hidden by shadows and nursing a neat Jim Beam. Whiskey is not something he drinks very often and he even more rarely gets drunk on _anything_ , but if he’s going to drink hard liquor then Beam is his preference. He’s tried more expensive, supposedly _better_ brands, but he always comes back to this. Jim Beam is the first kind of any alcohol Castiel ever tasted and it’s remained his favorite perhaps not because of the taste so much as what it represents in the earmarks of his life.

He’d still been in high school when some of the community elders had come to call him home—if he was ready—for the first time. He’d barely been seventeen and his desire to finish high school had led him to ask for the remaining year as well since technically he did have two years. It was simply custom that at the end of the first the elders would come calling to try and draw their wayward members back into the fold to take baptism.

By the end of his second year, Castiel had been the proud possessor of a high school diploma and there was a small 3x5 picture of him in a cap and gown on Bobby’s mantle. That year had been the year to send his parents calling for him and standing under the glow of Bobby’s front porch light where it spilled out into his dusty, weed-strangled front yard Castiel had told them he’d decided to stay. There was too much left to see and do and _learn_ that over the course of his two years of _rumspringa_ he’d slowly and mournfully come to the conclusion that he didn’t want to go back.

Oh, how his mother had wept and his father had scowled as though Castiel had spit in his face. “Then I renounce you as my son,” his father had said as he’d tried to pull his mother away.

She’d jerked from his grasp though to hug Castiel tight, sobbing into his hair and Castiel had held her back as hard as he could right up until his father had pried her away. She’d looked back at him over her shoulder, standing there skinny and young and she had waved farewell.

He’d stood there long after the clatter and clack of the horse’s hooves had disappeared into the night. Then something inside of him had broken and he’d crumpled to his knees with a pained cry as he, too, had started to sob; wondering, _What have I done?_

Bobby had come then, had no doubt been watching from the panes of glass in the front door the whole time and picked Castiel up from the ground and led him inside to the kitchen table. It was there he’d sat Castiel down and poured him a juice glass full of Jim Beam. Castiel had gotten abominably drunk that night, sobbing and talking and finally throwing up. Bobby had sat there with him to listen and talk and help him clean himself up, grumbling about it the whole time. The next day though, hangover aside, things had not seemed quite so bleak either.

With a wry smile, he lifts his glass for a sip and scans the bar, looking for Dean. He finds him by the pool tables, talking to a man that’s been there for a couple of hours. He’s tall with salt and pepper hair and a couple days growth of equally salt and pepper beard. Dean’s all smiles talking to him, green-gold eyes open wider than usual and every time he takes a sip of beer, he licks his lips as he’s lowering the bottle.

“Oh, no,” Castiel mutters into his glass of whiskey and then sips it again quickly as he watches all of that.

Dean is equal opportunity when it comes to picking people up at Maggie’s and it seems that’s exactly what he’s in the middle of doing right this second. Considering the small town mentality of Sioux Falls, Castiel is a little surprised as always that Dean’s behavior doesn’t raise more eyebrows and cause more tongues to wag than it seems to. Of course, eyebrows do raise and tongues do wag, just not to the extent Castiel would’ve ever expected them to. Sometimes he thinks it’s because Bobby is good friends with the sheriff and other times he thinks it’s because small town or not, maybe people aren’t quite the bigots popular media would make them out to be.

He shrugs to himself and looks on as the man leans in close to whisper something in Dean’s ear and watches the way Dean’s eyes close halfway. It makes Castiel sigh because he knows that Dean is picking up for sure and that means a 4:00 AM phone call to Castiel to come get him later. The fact the man bears an uncanny resemblance to John Winchester only makes Castiel feel more awkward about the entire situation; unsure exactly what it is he should be thinking about Dean’s preference in male partners. Dean is smiling again and Castiel watches with a raised eyebrow as Dean touches the man’s arm, fingers lingering on the bare, tanned skin just below the sleeve of his t-shirt.

He knows exactly what that light touch on the arm means; he’d been on the receiving end of that touch many years ago. He was in his second year of technical school and it had been a weekend spent doing homework and working that had led to drinking beer with Dean in one of the sheds scattered somewhat willy-nilly around the salvage yard. He still remembers Dean half-slurring, _Your eyes are so blue_ , as he’d touched his arm and then leaned in to kiss him.

Castiel’s reaction had been less than favorable because kissing Dean had felt an uncomfortable lot like kissing one of his brothers. The awkwardness that’d followed for a week after had been nigh on to unbearable until Dean had sat down beside him on the porch one day and simply said, _I’m sorry about the other night, dude, just stop freaking out on me, okay?_ So Castiel had stopped freaking out about it and they’d moved on.

There are still days though when he wishes he had told Dean that his biggest reason for leaving the Amish world had been because he’d _wanted_ to kiss other boys. Maybe one day he will tell him; it only seems right, but it’s hard because it’s not something Castiel has ever told anyone although he thinks Bobby probably knows anyway. However, because John Winchester had officially been Castiel’s first crush—before he’d really gotten to know him—Castiel thinks it may be wise to leave that particular detail out of any confessions he may make pertaining to his homosexuality. He does at least understand Dean’s attraction to the stranger by the pool table on that level at least. The _he looks a lot like your father_ level is the one that throws Castiel off one hundred percent completely though.

Castiel sighs again and lowers his glass, wiping a hand over his mouth when what he really wants to do is smack himself on the forehead. Playing Dean’s get away driver after he’s taken the walk of shame from one of the many beds he climbs into is not the most comfortable way Castiel can think of to end any kind of evening. Not to mention it’ll keep him awake all night waiting for Dean to call so he’s not blundering around in the dark half asleep before getting behind the wheel.

He looks up from the tabletop in time to see Dean making his way toward him and because he knows what’s coming, he just says, “Do you even know his name?” when Dean takes the chair across from him.

For a second Dean looks confused and then he snorts out a laugh, swaying in his chair a bit. He’s drunk again, which isn’t a surprise, Castiel has kept an eye on him all night after all. “Yeah, his name’s Jake,” Dean says and leans forward to prop his elbows on the table. “He’s just passin’ through and wanted some company. You know how it goes.”

“No, I really don’t,” Castiel says and sips his drink again.

“Ah… yeah…,” Dean says and has the decency to at least look a little shamefaced, cutting his eyes away and rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. You should probably do something about that.”

“Be quiet, Dean,” Castiel says patiently.

He’ll do something about when he’s ready to do something about it, which could possibly be never because even though it was the biggest part of his decision to stay in the outside world, Castiel still hasn’t completely escaped his hellfire and brimstone upbringing. That said, he feels much freer as he is now than he ever would have being married to a woman and having children. At least the life he lives out in the world feels more natural, if a bit lonely, to him.

“Sorry,” Dean says again and then gives him a little smile before looking over his shoulder at Jake waiting for him by the bar with a bottle bought from the bartender. “But look, can you—”

“Maybe you should call Bobby this time,” Castiel says. He’s not saying it to be mean to Dean either, not at all, but he should stop this. It isn’t _safe_ the way he just goes off with these strangers, male or female. Serial killers are very real, so are rapists and other assorted sickos, but Dean is not a child either and it’s not Castiel’s place to lecture. So he keeps those worries to himself.

“C’mon, Cas, don’t be that way,” Dean says. “You know Bobby would bitch me to hell and back if I called him.”

“Then why can’t your… friend… bring you back to Bobby’s?” Castiel asks. “I don’t understand why I must always come to fetch you after one of your clandestine… engagements.”

“Because you’ve got my back, you’re like… ya know… my wingman,” Dean says and leans over the table to slap Castiel’s shoulder.

“I am not,” Castiel says with a snort. “I am your taxi service so that you don’t have to deal with Bobby’s yelling.”

Dean sighs and shakes his head then gives him a flat look. “Dude,” he says, like that one word conveys all of his thoughts and feelings.

Castiel has known him long enough that he does grasp most of what he’s saying, so he shakes his head and says, “Dude,” right back with an equally flat look.

Dean throws his hands up in the air. “You can be such a fucking buzzkill, Cas. You know that?”

“Yes, just like you know I don’t care,” Castiel says and sips his drink again.

“Fuckin’ Amish,” Dean says and gets up from the table.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Former Amish, I am currently non-denominational,” he corrects.

“Whatever,” Dean says and starts to walk-sway off and then stops and comes back to press his hands against the tabletop and lean down next to Castiel. “ _C’mon_ , man, don’t do this to me. I need you to—”

“Pick you up after your one night stand with a stranger, yes, I have gathered that,” Castiel says and shakes his head. “No.”

“Damnit, Cas!” Dean snaps. “Please?”

Castiel fights the urge to roll his eyes once more before soundly throttling Dean right in the bar. “If you call me after three o’clock, you can just walk back to Bobby’s if you are too much of a chicken to call him and ask for a ride,” he relents, his irritation evident in the very careful, clipped way he speaks. “And do not ask me to go out with you again for an incredibly long time.”

“Thanks, man, thanks,” Dean says and then grins at him, that bullshit cocky grin full of false self-assurance. “And you’ll change your mind.”

“That is doubtful,” Castiel says and looks over at Jake still waiting for Dean by the bar though he seems to be growing restless. “You should go, your date is looking antsy.”

Dean looks over at him, too and gives him a brighter, sunnier smile; that one is all charm and lascivious promise. Castiel thinks it odd that Dean’s smiles all seem to serve a purpose, but only a couple seem to be smiles for the sole purpose of _smiling_ ; of expressing genuine joy and amusement. Dean though, he’s a peculiar man and was an even more peculiar boy, but Castiel has known that since he first met him. Sometimes he makes Castiel unbelievably sad because of all the things he knows.

“Have… fun,” Castiel says more gently and smiles at Dean.

Dean smiles back and that one is a real smile then he raises his hand in a quick wave to Jake— _all systems are go_ , that quick wave seems to say—slaps Castiel on the shoulder again and walks away. Castiel watches him walk out of Maggie’s with the man’s arm around his waist, fingers brushing Dean’s ass and barely manages to keep from beating his head against the tabletop.

Maggie’s may not be Castiel’s kind of place at all, but he decides he needs at least one more drink before he heads home. That and he kind of likes the song playing on the jukebox at the moment, too. People have stayed in places for less than that, he thinks as he gets up and heads for the bar, humming along with Tom Waits singing about taking an eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth.

Castiel flags down the bartender, Matt, with a twenty waving in the air to get served first. It’s a useful trick he learned from Bobby and Dean that works great. “More Jimmy?” Matt asks him with a smile.

“Let me try that ah… the Devil’s Cut,” Castiel says. He’s curious about the new style Jim Beam has come out with.

“It’s ninety proof, you sure?” Matt asks him, yelling over the music.

Castiel nods. “Yes, I would like to try it, please. Three fingers, neat, like always.”

“Whooo-wee, okay, if you’re sure,” Matt says, whistling low with a shake of his head as he goes to get Castiel’s drink.

Castiel has drunk moonshine before; he’s not overly concerned about ninety proof Jim Beam. Bobby’s friend, Rufus, makes some of the meanest rotgut corn liquor anyone in three states has ever tasted. He can handle the Devil’s Cut, he thinks. Of course he doesn’t drink that often, but still, he can do it. He does wonder if he is drinking so boldly simply because he is worried about Dean wandering off with a strange man who looks like his father. Something about that bothers him on a very deep level.

Matt comes back with his drink, Castiel pays and tips him then wanders back to his table. Tom Waits is strumming the last of the song that was playing, but he’s got a fresh drink he needs to finish—yes, _needs to_ , because he didn’t just pay what he did for it to leave it sitting on the bar. He can only hope that Rush or George Strait isn’t up next on the jukebox queue.

The corner where he usually sits is dark and Castiel is walking mostly by memory as he observes the people around him. He’s listening to their raucous barks of laughter carrying over the music. He’s looking at the way they move, friends, lovers and new acquaintances all coming together over spilled beer and cigarette smoke. They _fascinate_ him and as he moves he feels like an alien in their world just like he always does because he can never imagine himself doing those things. He can shoot pool and play cards like no one’s business; he knows how to down shots and laugh at bawdy jokes that are still genuinely amusing to him, but he only knows how to do those things with Bobby or Dean. Without them he is adrift in an ocean of noise; an outsider in the world he chose to live in. It leaves a heavy feeling in Castiel’s heart and a wish to try harder because he _could_ fit in, truly fit in, if he really wanted to. Except probably not.

His mind is wrapped up in all of those thoughts and he’s been sipping from his fresh drink without even realizing it. He makes it to his table and it feels like it has taken him ages to get that far and only then does he really _look_ at where he’s going and not at all that’s happening around him. Eyes blink back at him, the whites barely visible in the darkened corner and Castiel nearly stumbles, catching himself only at the last second. Whiskey still sloshes on his wrist and he absently licks it away, his shock not leaving him much in the way of propriety.

Tongue still on his wrist, tip growing cold in the smoky air of the bar, Castiel moves closer and squints into the dim corner. There is nothing there but his chair and with one last, absent lick of his wrist Castiel sits back down, blinking owlishly. He squints down at his whiskey and wonders if maybe he has had too much to drink after all. He doesn’t feel the least bit lightheaded though—okay, he feels a _little_ lightheaded; buzzed—and his coordination is perfectly fine, so he decides he isn’t drunk. It could’ve been a trick of the light, he figures as he sips his drink.

With the hand not holding his cup, Castiel scratches at the back of his neck, trying to smooth down the fine hairs there that are standing on end. Maybe, to be on the safe side, he should call Bobby and ask him for a ride home. Unlike Dean, Castiel does not fear Bobby’s wrath, after all. Smiling faintly, he rubs at his neck one last time and then props his chin in his hand to watch the crowd with slowly renewing interest as the image of eyes in the dark fades to the back of his mind. Lynyrd Skynyrd comes on the jukebox next and Castiel grimaces, takes a swallow of his whiskey and tries to pretend that “Free Bird” is not playing so loudly he can feel the bass line humming in his molars. Tilting his head in his palm slightly, Castiel decides he will not call Bobby after all; he still needs to take the Impala back to the salvage yard and retrieve his own vehicle anyway.

That decided, he finishes his drink and manages to get out of Maggie’s before “Every Rose Has a Thorn” really gets going. He considers that a triumph for the night as he heads across the parking lot. Gravel and crushed oyster shells grind under the soles of his old sneakers while the cold, cold autumn wind tears at his hair and leaves his trench coat billowing out behind him. Shuddering at the sharp chill, Castiel wrestles with his flapping coat and gathers it tightly around his body, hunching into the gusting air as he fishes for the car keys with his other hand.

He’s shivering so hard by the time he reaches the Impala that he has to hold his arm very stiffly so the key doesn’t jitter across the glossy black paint while he tries to unlock the door. The temperature has to’ve dropped at least twenty, maybe thirty, degrees since he and Dean went inside the bar. It was a little cold before, but now it’s nearly freezing and Castiel wishes he had thought to wear more than a t-shirt beneath his coat.

Castiel finally gets the key in the door and as he’s turning it, he glances out across the Impala’s roof to the naked fields on the north side of the parking lot. He jumps when he thinks he sees someone standing there, right outside the cone of light thrown by the security lamps. It’s just a tall silhouette in the darkness, something blacker than the charcoal-blue depths of the diluted night around the parking lot; barely noticeable. Leaning forward against the car, cold metal biting through his coat and t-shirt, Castiel is squinting for a better look when the door of the bar bursts open with a bang and laughing voices ring across the parking lot, echoing over the flat expanse. Startled again, Castiel whips his head around to look at the drunken group of four women stumbling out of Maggie’s, arms all around each other to keep them upright as they sing “Gold Dust Woman”.

When he looks back towards the edge of the parking lot, there is no one there and Castiel gets in the Impala, shaking his head. Once he’s behind the wheel, he checks himself for fever and finds his face colder than his palm. Letting out a heavy, shaky breath, he cranks the car and waits for it to warm up before pulling away from Maggie’s and heading back to Bobby’s. Castiel is more than ready to go home, yes indeed; he’s apparently had enough of outside for one night if he’s hallucinating.

The thought makes him laugh and once again he thinks he’s a bit mad, but it’s nothing he cannot deal with. Maybe he needs _more_ outside to adjust since he’s rather reclusive after all. He spends the drive to Bobby’s toying with the idea of joining a softball league come summer, nevermind that he doesn’t actually know how to play the sport; the goal is to socialize himself. Castiel does not think he would be all too popular with his teammates, however and once more makes himself laugh as he pulls into the long drive to Singer Salvage.

The Impala’s headlights wash over the yard and Castiel feels truly at ease for the first time since he walked into Maggie’s. He sighs audibly with relief as he takes in the weedy yard and hulking, Jenga-like stacks of old cars off to his left. Then he looks at the house and sees Dean sitting on the porch, an echo of that morning, wrapped in the heavy quilt from the living room couch and drinking from the bottle his companion had purchased earlier.

Castiel kills the car and goes to give Dean the keys. “Here she is, all in one piece,” he says, dropping them into Dean’s free hand when he holds it out. “Why are you home?”

Dean shrugs and lowers the bottle, blinking up at Castiel in the light coming from the hallway and spilling weakly onto the porch. “Do I owe you money?” Dean asks instead of answering Castiel’s question.

“Ah… Well. You owe me twenty dollars from our poker game last week,” Castiel says, cocking his head curiously; trying to read Dean in the bad light.

Dean nods and holds up his hand for Castiel to hold on. He watches as Dean leans back and roots under the quilt, swaying back and forth while he does God knows what. Castiel sees him leaning back more and more and is reaching to steady him even as Dean falls back completely on the porch with a thump that’s muffled a bit by the thick quilt.

“Shit,” Dean growls and then flails his hand under the blanket for a second before withdrawing it and waving it around. “Here,” he grunts as he struggles his way up from the porch. Once he’s upright, he offers Castiel what he fished out of his pocket, waving it at him until Castiel takes it.

Castiel can tell it’s money, but he can’t see how much it is and withdraws his truck keys to look at the bill with the beam from the mini flashlight he keeps on his keyring. He studies the bill for a moment and then looks at Dean who is looking at the porch post and picking at a piece of cracked paint there with drunkenly studious interest.

“Dean, this is fifty dollars,” Castiel says. “You only owed me twenty.”

“Yeah, well, consider it interest,” Dean says, half snapping it. “Or I dunno… keep the change, whatever; just take it because I don’t want it.”

“I do not understand,” Castiel says and tries to give Dean the money back. “You don’t _owe_ me this much and I am not going to just take it.”

“Take the damned money, Cas!” Dean snarls at him and shoves at his hand to get the money away from him.

“Why—?” Castiel starts and then looks at Dean sitting there like that, his confused expression melting into a frown. “Dean… What…?”

“What the fuck do you think? You’re a virgin, not a moron,” Dean says and then drinks angrily from his bottle. Lowering it again, he waves it around and says, “At least he drove me home, right?”

“Dean, no, this—How could he _think_ that you…,” Castiel waves his hand around, the fifty still in his fingers flapping and he cuts his eyes to it, lip curling in disgust and anger.

“I don’t know, but I guess I ain’t worth much, huh?” Dean says and grins at him, baring his teeth in a bitter snarl. “Least I stole the fucker’s booze. Ha!”

Castiel thinks that is hardly suitable revenge, but if it makes Dean feel at all better—and it likely does not—then he won’t say anything about it. “Do you have your lighter?” he asks instead.

“Course I do,” Dean says and reaches in his shirt pocket to pull out his Zippo. “You takin’ up smoking now?”

“Certainly not,” Castiel says and plucks the lighter from Dean. He opens it, turns the spark wheel and looks at Dean’s sad face in the flickering orange light before he holds the flame to the fifty. Dean’s eyes widen at that, but Castiel just shakes his head. “To hell with him,” is all he says as he drops the burning fifty to the ground to let it finish becoming ash.

Dean’s silent for a long while after that and in the distance, Castiel can hear a hound baying it’s so quiet out. Then Dean chuffs out an amused, if slightly choked, laugh and says, “Thanks, Cas… just… thanks.”

“You are welcome,” Castiel says and bends down to give Dean a quick, awkward given the angle, hug.

Dean grumbles and mutters, but then he slings an arm across Castiel’s shoulders and squeezes him back hard enough it hurts. “Thanks,” Dean says again before pushing him away. “Enough chick flick shit though, okay? Go home, dude, we got work tomorrow.”

Technically they don’t have work tomorrow since Bobby gives them weekends off and it’s Saturday, but Castiel doesn’t correct Dean. He’s usually there on the weekends, working anyway and then spending the evenings with Bobby and Dean, taking supper and maybe watching a movie—barring Bobby does not make his (in)famous chili.

“I will see you tomorrow then,” Castiel says and then stops. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a big boy now,” Dean says.

Castiel isn’t so sure how much that matters, not in the long run, but he’ll leave it for now. “Goodnight, Dean. Don’t fall asleep on the porch, it’s too cold out for that.”

“I won’t, _mom_ ,” Dean replies and waves him off with a, “‘Night, man.”

Castiel leaves him sitting on the porch, still looking unhappy, but nowhere near as miserable as he did. With Dean, that is like a victory, he thinks as he cranks his truck and pulls away after a moment to let it warm up, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Castiel arrives home and feels the tension ease from his body like water as he bumps down his driveway. As his headlights sweep his front yard, he actually smiles a little and relaxes in his seat. Then he looks across his yard, eyes skipping over the old picnic table sitting under a big oak in the side yard. Something catches Castiel’s attention and he jerks his head back to look at the table better. He sits up straight, shoulders hunching up and tense all over again as he hits the brakes automatically in his surprise.

Sam’s sitting at the worn cedar table, staring up at the tree and the flurry of autumn leaves shivering down from its limbs in the wind. He turns to look straight at Castiel when he slams on brakes. There is a burnt orange leaf caught in his dark hair, twisting in the wind, turning black and then light in the headlights. He smiles faintly at Castiel and the way his eyes meet Castiel’s without hesitation at even such a distance is disconcerting to him as he lets off the brake and pulls the truck beneath the carport.

“This is strange, so strange,” he says to himself as he holds to the steering wheel. Then with a deep breath, he lets go of the wheel and kills the truck, experiencing a mild case of déjà vu from the night before.

The carport light is on and with it, he can see Sam sitting at the table, still as a statue except for how he’s turned his head to look at Castiel where he is now. The angle of it looks almost unnatural to Castiel, but he gets out of the truck anyway and tells himself to stop being stupid. Though he does wonder why Sam has shown up at his home again since he didn’t even deign to stay the previous night.

As he walks toward Sam, arms wrapped around himself to try and keep out the cold, Sam lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers in a little wave then he leans his head back to watch the falling leaves again. “What are you doing here?” Castiel asks when he reaches the table. He doesn’t mean to be rude, but this is becoming increasingly more frequent, these odd little meetings of theirs and he doesn’t know what else to say.

“I wanted to say hello,” Sam says, still looking up at the tree. Then he dips his head down and looks right at Castiel with a faint, almost teasing, smile. “Hello,” he says and then tilts his head, looking almost curious as he watches Castiel.

“Hello,” Castiel says back and then huffs out a breath. It’s nearly freezing out and he doesn’t need to catch pneumonia trying to have a conversation with this weird man. “Is that the only reason you came here again?”

“No,” Sam says and props his elbows on the table. “I was also thinking that we could converse for a little while.”

“Out here? It’s freezing,” Castiel says and then wonders why he’s even half entertaining the idea at all.

Sam studies him more intently and says, “I’m not cold.”

“Then there is something wrong with you,” Castiel says, the cold and his strange visitor making him a bit testy.

“I’m sure there are many things wrong with me, but the cold isn’t one of them,” Sam says then considers and adds, “Or rather my lack of being cold, I suppose.”

“You make no sense,” Castiel says as he ducks his head to try and better shield himself from the wind.

“Sure I do,” Sam says. “Come; sit down for a bit and I promise you won’t be cold either. It’s quite cozy where I am sitting.”

Castiel gives him a narrow eyed look and says, “Nonsense,” but goes to sit on the other bench seat across from Sam anyway, telling himself that he’ll only do it for a minute. Upsetting crazy people—and yes, Sam obviously is, he’s nearly certain of it—is never a good idea according to the things Castiel has learned.

Except the bench seat is warm beneath him and the air temperature seems higher; _cozy_ after all. Across from him, Sam is smiling again, this time bigger; this time in a way that seems to say, _I told you so._

He looks back at Sam across the table, meeting his eyes and trying not to turn away from what he sees there. The expression in his eyes is mild, unassuming aside from that always present, nearly avian, curiosity in them. It is what seems to lie _beneath_ that surface veneer that makes it hard for Castiel to hold Sam’s gaze for very long. He has the feeling that if he were to really _look_ beneath the mild expression and tired sadness that he would fall into infinity; into something far older than he could comprehend. It is there, lost in Sam’s strange eyes, Castiel fears on a deep, primal level that he would go mad.

Folding his hands on the tabletop, Castiel looks down at their backs and tries to think of something to say, they are supposed to be conversing after all. Sam seems content to simply sit there and watch him with that same calm interest he has. Rubbing his fingertips lightly back and forth over the wood that has been made silky by age and weather, Castiel rummages around for a topic because the silence coupled with Sam watching him is making him want to fidget though he’s trying not to.

The best he can come up with given the overall strangeness of the whole situation is, “So.”

“Buttons?” Sam asks and tilts his head with a soft laugh.

“What… I don’t… What?” Castiel says and frowns back at him. He’s heard the phrase before, his mother and both of his grandmothers used it, but it’s still not exactly what he would’ve expected Sam to say.

“It’s a saying I’ve heard many times,” Sam says. “I think it’s rather funny, don’t you?”

“It’s… No, actually, I don’t find it funny. I never have,” Castiel says. “I’ve always found it mildly patronizing or at the least, condescending. I do realize it’s supposed to be… _cute_ though.”

“Ah,” Sam says and seems content to leave it at that.

Castiel sighs and looks back down at his hands again. Yes, he decides, he really does have terrible social skills. A question does occur to him after another minute or so though and he says, “Where are you from, Sam?”

Sam shrugs his broad shoulders and says, “Somewhere in between.”

“Well, that’s _vague_ ,” Castiel says and looks up from his hands to give Sam a pointed look. “You said you wanted to converse, but we are decidedly _not_ doing that.”

“Truth is truth,” Sam says with another shrug. “You’re right though, this is not a conversation.”

Castiel sighs again and resituates himself on the bench a little then looks around just to have _something_ to do. Now that he’s asked one question and not gotten anything at all like an answer to it, his mind is whirling with them. Truth is, Castiel has a _lot_ of questions for Sam, but he’s not sure how to ask _any_ of them, especially given the fact Sam doesn’t seem overeager to answer him anyway.

“Why did you sit down next to me in the town square that day?” Castiel asks finally. “And why did you tell me that I… that I _smell_ sad?”

“Curiosity finally got the better of me,” Sam tells him. “And because you do.”

“Curiosity?” Castiel echoes and sits up straighter at that answer. “ _Curiosity_? Are… Are you _following_ me?”

“More like watching you,” Sam says and props his chin in one of his hands. “Does that bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me!” Castiel snaps at him and leans back on the bench, hands braced along the table’s edge. “Watching people is _stalking_ and no one likes that.”

Sam makes a soft scoffing sound. “That’s a bit harsh.”

“It is not, it’s true,” Castiel says back. “You… you… I do not like this at all.” He stops and thinks for a moment and then says, “Why have I never seen you before then? If you are _stalking_ me and have been then why? No, you are lying because you are not… of a size easily hidden.”

“You’d be surprised how well I can hide,” Sam says and then waves the hand he’s not propped on. “What I mean to say is that you have never seen me before the day in the town square because I did not _want_ to be seen. Is that better?”

“ _No_ ,” Castiel says. He’s more than a little put out by all of this and yes, he’s also freaked out, yet he is still not _scared_ of Sam as he thinks he should be. “How is it that you can hide from me so well that I’ve never seen you until you decided to be seen?”

“Like so,” Sam says and then disappears right in front of Castiel’s wide eyes.

Castiel makes a strangled, startled sound and nearly falls off the bench when he reels backwards at that. When Sam reappears a couple of seconds later, standing at the end of the table, Castiel scrambles off the bench and backs away from him.

“What is this? Who—No. _What_ are you?” he demands, voice shaking and hands out to ward Sam away.

Sam’s smile is genuinely pleased when Castiel says that and he rocks on his heels a bit, looking up at the starry sky, sharing his smile with the heavens. “That’s a much better question,” Sam says. “As for _who_ I am, I’ve already told you that—I’m the one who listened. As for _what_ I am—I’m an angel.”

“You expect me to believe that _you_ are an angel of the Lord?” Castiel asks because regardless of what he has just seen, he still cannot believe _that_.

“I didn’t say that,” Sam says and takes a step towards him, which Castiel makes up for by taking two more away. “I just said I am an angel.”

“The only angels are _God’s_ angels,” Castiel says and swallows, trying to work some moisture into his dry mouth. He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his throat, throbbing on the back of his tongue and he’s pretty sure he’s starting to hyperventilate a bit. He coughs out a derisive laugh all the same and shakes his head. “You are a liar and a trickster of some kind because there is no such thing as angels just as there is no such thing as God.”

The words are said without him thinking about it and as soon as they’re spoken, Castiel clamps a hand over his mouth as though to hold back anything else that may be forthcoming. He’s doubted in a quiet, barely acknowledged way for many years since he left the Amish world, but he’s never given those doubts much room for thought and reflection. It could even be said that he has _denied_ them because losing his faith; the faith he had been raised with, truly frightened him in a lot of ways. Over time though his faith and belief in God has withered up and died inside of him, leaving behind certain values and definitely many superstitions; mere echoes of what he once held as absolute truth. All of those things left behind have masqueraded as faith in Castiel’s life, masking themselves as his belief still being alive when it really wasn’t. Now that he’s said the words; said _there is no God_ he knows though and it breaks his heart just a little bit to have one more tie to his old life gone.

Sam is watching him and somewhere in all of Castiel’s turmoil, he has moved closer. He’s close enough that Castiel can smell him, that same odor of rain, ozone and old book dust clinging to him and stirring in the breeze that, Castiel suddenly realizes, isn’t actually _touching_ either of them though it has whipped into what’s verging on a windstorm. He can hear the wind, he can smell the scents carried on it, but he cannot _feel_ it.

Hand still over his mouth, he looks back at Sam who’s inched even closer and Sam shakes his head slightly, an expression of rueful amusement on his face. “Oh, no, there is a God,” Sam says as he reaches out and gently pulls Castiel’s hand away from his mouth with warm fingers. “He just doesn’t care is all.” He shrugs again and makes a _meh_ sound of dismissal and squeezes Castiel’s hand that’s now held in his. “You get used to it.”

“You get… Right,” Castiel says, muttering it almost and pulls his hand away from Sam. The warmth of his touch still tingles along his skin and he crosses his arms defensively, tucking his hands under his armpits to keep them warm although wherever Sam is, the cold does not seem to follow. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and shakes his head, denial in every motion he makes as he backs away from Sam once more to try and put distance between them.

“ _Liar_ ,” he spits, suddenly angry as he breaks out of his shock. He untucks a hand from an armpit to jab a finger at Sam. “You say you’re the one who listened then you tell me: You listened to _what_?”

Sam sighs heavily and even in the dim light, Castiel can see him clench his jaw with impatience or annoyance one. Eyes boring into Castiel’s in such a way it’s as though he’s rooted to the spot, Sam says, “Your mother’s prayers. _I_ am the one that heard her and chose to _listen_ to her prayers for her Castiel.”

“Stop this!” Castiel says and fights the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. “You do not know me and you do not know my mother. I will not hear this.”

He’s looking right at Sam, still rooted there despite himself and when Sam moves, he still doesn’t see him do so. One second he is there and the next he is right in front of Castiel, so very close that he can feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Castiel,” Sam says and he sounds almost sad when he does it, something… something _wistful_ in his expression and Castiel thinks for a split second that he has seen that look on his face before. He cups Castiel’s cheeks in his big hands, hands so big they seem to swallow the sides of Castiel’s face and bends down close to him. “If you will not believe me then I will show you,” Sam says and strokes his thumbs along Castiel’s skin.

Castiel raises his hands to grab his wrists and push him away, but once his fingers close around the solid bone and squeeze, he stops, magnetized by the contact. “Stop,” Castiel says again, though the protest is weaker as he looks into Sam’s eyes. That close is like being caught in a web with no escape. Staring into Sam’s speckled hazel eyes, Castiel thinks he sees a star collapse into itself and become the black hole that is really nothing more than Sam’s pupil.

Sam shushes him gently, kindly and then whispers, “Come and see.”

His breath tingles on Castiel’s lips for a split second and then Sam kisses him and Castiel sees. He sees his mother behind their whitewashed house the same night he told them he was never coming back. She’s on her knees in the wild red clover with the sleepy drone of bees resting in the thick, sweet carpet of it, a background to the crickets singing all around and she’s weeping. She’s got a hand-carved cross clasped between her hands as she kneels there and whispers softly around her crying, _Please, hear me, dear Lord and all of your angels, look over my Castiel. My odd little Castiel, take care of him, I beg you because he is all alone now._

Behind her comes Sam, a tall shadow melting out of the bright moonlit night with his head cocked and hands dangling at his sides. As she whispers her prayers he bends down closer until his mouth is beside her ear and says, _Not to worry._

The image flips-spins and Castiel is looking at himself and tasting Sam’s mouth all at the same time. Castiel sees himself sitting canted steeply to one side and trying to relay something very important to Bobby, but his words are too slurred for him to manage and he keeps stopping to laugh at how stupid he sounds. Sam’s mouth tastes of nothing holy or divine, just faintly of Juicy Fruit gum, Castiel realizes as his fingers bite harder into Sam’s shoulders where they’ve somehow found themselves. Sam is standing right behind Castiel, hands in the pockets of his long black coat and head still tilted. He’s smiling at the sight of Castiel waving his hands in the air and then lowering them to pick up his whiskey with both hands to hold the glass steady. One more sip and he thunks it back on the table with a stricken look then says, _I feel sick, Bobby_.

The image changes again and he sees him and Dean polishing up the Impala a few days after John brought it and left it—what Castiel would later figure out was his way of giving Dean a sixteenth birthday present. Sam’s fingers are pulling through his hair and his tongue is sliding across Castiel’s. Around them, the wind is singing again, beautiful words in a language Castiel does not know. In the memory they’re talking and laughing, Dean telling Castiel that he needs to wax _on_ and Castiel telling him no, no, he must wax _off_. Bobby is under the hood tinkering with something and it was a good day; a _calm_ day and is one of Castiel’s favorite memories. Sam is crouched on the roof of the Impala, elbows resting on his knees as Castiel’s rag waxes _off_ beside his left foot.

Castiel is awkwardly watching a pornographic movie for the first time, something pilfered from a box under Dean’s bed. The women are naked and quite beautiful, but their tanned skin and husky moans do nothing for him. Sam is sitting right next to him, laughing about the whole thing. Sam’s fingers are stroking down the back of Castiel’s neck, leaving trails of heat behind them and he makes a whimpering sound, half real fear, half hungry want.

Castiel is running through the junkyard in a sudden summer rainstorm, trying to get to the house before he’s completely soaked. Sam moves alongside him and finally takes his coat off to hold it over Castiel’s head to help keep him dry. Sam breathes the breath from Castiel’s lungs and pushes it back into them again, sharing air and Castiel’s fingers are tight on the lapels of that same black coat.

Castiel is at home, in bed and Sam is standing beside him, looking down at him almost sadly. For the first time, he reaches out and touches Castiel, stroking the tips of his fingers along the hair at his temple. Castiel turns into the touch the best he can and dreams of fiery skies and a singing so loud it is deafening. In the corner by the closet, Lot is barking-barking-barking then Sam disappears and the dog runs for the window. Sam’s licking out of his mouth and pulling away at last and Castiel gasps then cries out as the world wheels back into something solid again. The night is all around them; the night of _now_ , not the days and nights of _then_. There is the faintest taste of Juicy Fruit lingering in his mouth and he can’t stop blinking as he falls into Sam who is a solid weight against him.

“Would you like to see more?” Sam asks him as he strokes a hand down Castiel’s shivering back. Castiel makes a choked sound of negation in the back of his throat and shakes his head, _no_ as he holds onto Sam, the only solid-seeming thing in his world at the moment.

“You have always been there,” Castiel manages to get out after a few minutes spent standing there, waiting for reality to more firmly reassert itself. He wants to run, he does, but his legs won’t move and because of that he doesn’t let go of Sam just yet.

“Every day, yes,” Sam says and cradles the back of Castiel’s head when he gasps again, his other arm going around his waist to hold him up when his knees do finally buckle.

“You kissed me,” Castiel says stupidly, breathing Sam in and trying to process what he wants to say was a hallucination and knows better.

“I did that, too, yes,” Sam says and his soft laugh rumbles in his chest, vibrating against Castiel’s cheek where it’s pressed to his plain black shirt. “I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time and I would like to do it again if you will let me.”

“No,” Castiel says and pushes himself away at last. He stumbles a bit and Sam grasps his upper arms to steady him. “All you will do is devil me with more pictures.”

“If I promise to keep the pictures to myself, will you let me then?” Sam asks.

“I don’t trust you to keep that promise,” Castiel says. “Not at all.”

“I never lie,” Sam says and studies Castiel, that same wistful look in his eyes. “Ever. Imagine, millennia after millennia of telling the truth. _Boring_ , but still true.”

“You only tell half-truths and speak in riddles then,” Castiel says and tries to shrug Sam off.

“There are loopholes, sure,” Sam says and lets him go.

Castiel stumbles back and licks his lips as he looks at Sam, shaking his head in wonder at the… _creature_ standing before him. Still, after all that Sam has shown him, he does not believe he’s an angel, not at all. Yet, he doesn’t _dis_ believe him either. Looking at Sam, Castiel sees something that doesn’t quite allow him to discount everything Sam has said and of course there’s what Sam has _shown_ him. That and no matter how young Sam may look, there is something timeless about him; unchanging, though Castiel can’t say why or how he knows that; he can only say that Sam’s eyes are _old_ and as unfathomable as everything else about him. Despite how much Castiel tries to think otherwise, there is too much evidence telling him that Sam really is something otherworldly.

“You are no angel,” Castiel says at last, having decided that while Sam is _something_ , an angel is _not_ it.

Sam sighs and even though the light is weak, Castiel sees him raise an eyebrow. “Oh? Then tell me, Castiel, what am I?”

“I don’t know, but an angel would not do what you have just done,” Castiel says and unconsciously licks his lips again.

“Then what am I?” Sam asks again as he steps closer to Castiel. “Enlighten me, I’m curious.”

“You are curious a lot,” Castiel says as he rakes his fingers through his mussed hair. Sam laughs again, another soft puff of sound and Castiel is startled at the remembrance of how that laugh felt against his cheek.

“Tell me,” Sam prompts once more. “Tell me what I am.”

“You are a demon or maybe Lucifer himself,” Castiel says, straightening up and looking right into Sam’s ancient eyes.

When Sam laughs that time it rings through the night, deep and amused; beautiful to hear. “I’ve been confused with my brother many times, but I am not Lucifer. If you think about it, you can probably guess my name.”

Castiel gapes at him, racking his memory for all the names of all the angels he can remember to try and guess Sam’s name. He is named after an angel, the angel of Thursday because he was born on that day. He has two brothers named after archangels as well. Castiel’s mother loved naming the angels and she taught those names to her children. There is only one angel he can think of though who has been considered comparable with Lucifer.

“Sam… You are Sam—” Castiel begins and Sam nods, smiling at him, but he waves a hand all the same, cutting Castiel off before he can finish.

“Sam will suffice,” he says and Castiel can only stare at him.

“But you are—”

“Nefarious? Glorious? Bipolar, as they say?” Sam asks and laughs again. “You have to understand that things tend to get lost in translation.”

Sobering, he moves even closer to Castiel, crowding him and he can’t help himself—Castiel is drawn to him despite everything he thinks. He _does_ want to kiss Sam again, he is appalled to know that given that Sam may very well be an evil thing sent to tempt him, but he does.

Leaning close to whisper in his ear, Sam says, “When God brought us before Him and said that we were to love mankind; that we were to kneel before you, Lucifer rebelled. He loved _only_ God, you see, but I did what our Father asked of us and I grew to love your kind above any of my brethren. It took many millennia for that to happen. However, it did and because of that love, I walked away from Heaven, but I did not fall from it like the Watchers did. My love led me here, their love threw them to the ground and nearly destroyed the Earth in the process. Some of us, you see, have a little more common sense than they did.”

“I don’t—” _believe you_ Castiel starts to say, but Sam cuts him off with, “I know, but it’s _still_ the truth.”

Sam’s still bent down, lips close to Castiel’s ear as he continues to whisper and he shivers at the feel of his breath washing over his ear, down the side of his neck and instinctively leans his head to the side more. When Sam’s lips brush lightly across the skin beneath his ear, Castiel jumps and swallows down a small, soft sound.

“Seducer,” he whispers, remembering one of the many things that has been said about who Sam claims to be. He lifts a tentative hand to touch Sam’s hair. It’s silky between his fingers as he gently rubs the dark strands together before letting himself slide his fingers into it.

“Amongst other things, yes,” Sam says, amusement evident in his voice.

Castiel swallows again and when Sam nuzzles the side of his neck, he gasps, he can’t help himself. His fingers close in Sam’s hair automatically and he makes himself relax his grip and slide them down the back of his neck. He can feel the way Sam’s lips curve into a smile where they’re pressed against his skin and Castiel tilts his head even more.

Finding boldness he did not realize he possessed, Castiel rests his hand against the back of Sam’s neck and says, “Then do it.”

“Seduce you?” Sam asks. “I’ve been trying, you know.”

“But now I am _asking_ ,” Castiel says back, heart lobbing in his chest and palms growing sweaty with nerves. “I am asking because I… I think I _do_ want you to kiss me again after all.”

Sam’s teeth are smooth and moist against his skin when his smile grows wider at that. He moves away from the side of Castiel’s neck and looks at him, head tilted in that now familiar bird-like way of his. “If you insist,” Sam says.

Castiel closes his eyes and waits for it to happen, thinking that if he sees Sam moving towards him he will lose all the nerve he’s managed to muster up. When Sam’s lips brush over his, Castiel sighs and when Sam’s thumb strokes under his jaw, gently urging his mouth open, Castiel does so without hesitation, leaning into it.

They are unmatched in skill, Castiel is painfully, embarrassingly aware of that as their tongues slide together. No angel should know how to kiss like Sam does, but Castiel tries to follow his lead and once again his hands find their way to the lapels of Sam’s coat. He holds on, fingers twisting in the dusty black cloth as he makes another soft sound of want that breaks in his throat.

Sam makes an encouraging sound as he licks out of Castiel’s mouth so he can breathe and trails kisses down the side of his neck then up again behind his ear. He’s shivering all over, want and virgin nerves making him jittery; leaving him feeling as though he’s had too much caffeine. Sam licks his throat and the feel of his tongue against his skin makes Castiel jump again.

With a choked sound he steps back and gasps, “Stop.”

“Have I done something wrong?” Sam asks him.

“No,” Castiel says and shakes his head. He lets go of Sam’s lapels and smoothes them down just to have something to do with his hands. “I just— It’s a bit much for me, I’m not… I’ve never… I’m a…”

“I know,” Sam says and takes his still smoothing hands away from his lapels to hold them still, thumbs stroking over their backs.

Castiel coughs out an embarrassed laugh and feels himself blush. “Of course you do,” he says, heat creeping under his skin, up his neck and flaring out across his cheeks. He takes his hands from Sam to rub at his burning face. “I feel utterly ridiculous,” he says mostly to himself.

Sam says nothing, just watches him. Lowering his hands, Castiel stuffs them in his coat pockets and thinks for a moment. Then with a nod, he starts to walk away. “You may stay the night with me if you’d like,” he says and stops to turn and look at Sam, one finger raised. “ _If_ you promise to actually _stay_ this time and only for _sleep_.”

Sam makes an X in the air over his heart. “I promise.”

“Don’t mock me, please,” Castiel says and feels like a prude for it as he turns to start walking again, but Sam laughs and appears beside him.

“Of course not,” Sam says amiably.

“Okay,” Castiel says and goes up the three steps to his side door. Sam stands behind him on the ground, waiting for him to unlock the door.

Once he’s got it unlocked, he goes on inside, not ready to look at Sam again yet; he needs to wait for his stomach to stop tying itself into knots before he does that. He hears the door close, but does not hear Sam and risks a glance over his shoulder to find him standing right behind him. It’s eerie the way he moves without making a sound. Sam grins at him as the thought crosses his mind, but as they enter the kitchen, he can hear Sam’s boots clumping across the linoleum.

Around the corner from the living room, Lot barrels into the kitchen, paws sliding on the slick floor and when he sees Sam he slides even more as he starts trying to backpedal. He snarls and then starts barking, the sound deafening in its suddenness. Castiel is struck again with a sense of déjà vu and looks at his normally docile, friendly dog in bewilderment before he looks back at Sam again.

Sam is watching the dog with a small frown of annoyance and behind Lot is Agriope. She has her back arched and she hisses just as Castiel takes notice of her. “What—? Castiel starts.

Sam’s lip pulls back in a slight sneer and he says, “ _Hush_ ,” very, very softly, but the sound of his voice carries over the racket the dog and the cat are making.

As soon as the word is spoken, both Lot and Agriope fall silent, Lot sinking down to his belly with a whine and the cat streaking off into the dark of the house where she came from.

“What have you done to my pets?” Castiel asks and about this, about his beloved companions, he will get angry. “They don’t like you.”

“They don’t _dislike_ me,” Sam says. “They can _see_ what I am and I am not human, so they instinctively _fear_ me.”

“Why?” Castiel asks.

“I’m sure I must look very strange to them,” Sam says as he crouches down in front of Lot to scratch his ears, murmuring softly to him.

“You look like a man,” Castiel says.

“But I’m not and they know it,” Sam says right back.

Castiel rubs his forehead again, trying to process and is too tired, worn out from the night’s many surprises, to get very far. “I need to let the dog out, assuming he hasn’t already peed the rug,” he says instead of pursuing the topic further for the moment. There will be time for that later, he thinks.

Sam steps back from the dog who has at last started to wag his tail, watching Sam with what Castiel thinks of as cautious optimism. “Come on, Lot, let’s go potty,” Castiel says and pretends he doesn’t see the way Sam smiles at that.

Once he’s let the dog out and brushed his teeth, Castiel gets dressed for bed then tries to decide what to do with Sam for the night. Does he ask him to sleep in the bed with him or offer him the guest room? He’s not at all sure what the protocol here is. He thinks Dean would probably know exactly what to do if it was him in this situation, but then again, Dean has never invited an angel to spend the night after kissing him either, so perhaps not.

When he walks into his bedroom, Sam is sitting on the end of his bed, hands clasped between his knees and watching Castiel. “Ah…” Castiel tries and then just gives up.

They have kissed and such, so he supposes it is okay and he knows that Sam has been in his bedroom before. He thinks it will be fine because no, he is not afraid of Sam at all. He’s a little afraid of what Sam is or at least claims to be, but he does not fear _him_. Such thinking is making Castiel’s head hurt horribly; he always gets terribly introspective when he’s too tired for such things.

He goes to his side of the bed and sits there for a bit, feeling Sam’s presence filling up the room though he hasn’t moved other than to turn his head to look at Castiel. With a sigh, he at last lays down and tugs at the covers, trying to pull them up, which is not easy with Sam sitting on them. He stands up though and Castiel pulls the blankets up and around himself better then rolls over to turn out the light. His eyes land on the brown feather from that morning. It glints with the same burning bronze sheen as before, winking and almost sparkling in the low wattage light. Castiel stares at it for a second before he reaches out and flips off the lamp, wondering if perhaps its former owner is now in the bed with him. He thinks that perhaps he is, yes.

Sam’s weight settles down on the mattress behind him and Castiel closes his eyes when his arm drapes over his waist. “Goodnight, Sam,” Castiel whispers, afraid to say it too loudly.

“Goodnight, Castiel,” Sam says in return and kisses the back of his neck, which makes Castiel shiver for what is probably the thousandth time that night. At least it feels like it.

God, what is he doing, he thinks as he lays there and focuses on breathing in and out, the image of the feather turning and flashing in his mind as he does. Sleep still comes shockingly fast and Castiel lets it take him, pulling him away from the strangely comforting presence of Sam beside him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sometime later he comes half awake when he thinks he hears a rustling sound and sits up to muzzily look around. He’s not really sure he’s awake even a bit and when he sees Sam perched atop his dresser, hands dangling between his knees, Castiel is certain of it.

“Sam?” he says and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes anyway, just in case.

Sam smiles at him in the dark, presses a finger to his lips and says, “ _Shhhhh_ , Castiel. Sleep.”

“Okay,” Castiel says easily and settles back down, closing his eyes again. As he drifts towards sleep again, he thinks of that rustling sound. He thinks of Tom Waits. He thinks, _beneath his coat there are wings_.

On the rug beside his bed, Lot is awake and watching Sam on the dresser, but he is quiet-quiet-quiet.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Castiel wakes early the next morning to the sound of migrating geese flying low overhead and ravens screeching back at their honking progression. They pull him from strange dreams of beautiful creatures with skin made of opal. They have unforgiving, perfect faces and eyes that look _through_ , not _at_ him. With a groan, he rolls over and stretches as the last of the geese fly overhead and the opal-skinned creatures fade away as he blinks his eyes open. Agriope is washing her fat rolls in the windowsill and Lot is chewing on a tug-toy in the corner by the closet. In the dim, early light, everything seems blessedly normal and Castiel almost smiles.

Then he becomes aware of the solid weight behind him, the warmth along his back and legs and Sam’s hand curled loosely over his hip. He stares at Sam’s hand and when he wiggles his fingers at him and says, “Good morning, Castiel,” he jumps a little.

Rolling over he looks at Sam lying there beside him, watching him with a little smile. He looks like he’s been awake for hours; eyes bright and alert while Castiel’s head is still cloudy with sleep; the strange images of his dream waltzing through his memory. Sam props up on his elbow and Castiel tilts his head back to see him better.

“You’re real,” he says sleepily, voice rough with it and he blinks then rubs his eyes to try and orient himself better.

“Indeed,” Sam says back and his smile grows bigger. “Did you doubt?”

“Of course I did,” Castiel says. “I still do.”

Sam tuts softly under his breath, the sound chiding as he resettles his hand on Castiel’s hip and presses his fingers lightly against it, stroking lightly over the blankets. Castiel cuts his eyes down with a frown at the touch even as a warm _something_ shivers through his belly at the sight of that big hand on him.

“You’re too young to be so cynical,” Sam says at last, sounding thoughtful about it. “I think all of the Sexton you read has warped your mind.”

“She wasn’t cynical, she was mentally ill and she had every right to be somewhat… bitter… about that,” Castiel says back absently, eyes still on Sam’s hand. Then he looks away and back up at Sam. “You’ve been reading my books?”

“I had to do something while you slept,” Sam says with a shrug. “I happen to enjoy reading, so it seemed a suitable activity.”

“You did not sleep at all?” Castiel asks.

“I _never_ sleep,” Sam says and takes his hand off his hip to wave it around lazily. When he puts it back, he rests it just above Castiel’s waist. “I have no need of it.”

“That is absurd,” Castiel says. “Everyone must sleep.”

“Mmm… not so,” Sam corrects and leans down closer to Castiel. “You talk entirely too much for someone who’s just woken up.”

Castiel snorts at that and says, “You touch too much for someone who never sleeps.”

Sam laughs at him and Castiel feels his breath against his mouth. He can smell Juicy Fruit gum again, fresher now and he licks his lips. “That makes no sense,” Sam whispers to him as he moves in closer.

“It makes perfect sense to—” Castiel makes a muffled sound of surprise when Sam’s lips cover his. He should’ve seen it coming, really, he should have, but Sam has a way of distracting him with the idlest things that it’s still a surprise.

He yields to the kiss though and when Sam’s hand at his waist pulls him closer; Castiel goes with far less hesitation than he did the night before. He’s getting used to this sort of thing alarmingly fast and he doesn’t know what to do with that, so he just kisses Sam back and—essentially—hopes for the best, whatever that may be.

He rests his hand on Sam’s upper arm, holding onto him and feeling solid muscle beneath his pressing fingers even through the layers of Sam’s clothing. When Sam sucks lightly at his tongue, Castiel moans softly and startles himself. He pulls away abruptly, embarrassment breaking his focus and looks at Sam with wide eyes as he catches his breath. He expects Sam to laugh at him and he is _too old_ for this, he is, but this is all so new to him that he can’t… He doesn’t know _how_ … and when Sam smiles and shakes his head, Castiel thinks that’s it, he’s going to laugh after all.

“Castiel,” Sam says gently and touches his cheek, brushing his fingers down it to the side of his neck where he rests them against his jumping pulse. “You think too much.”

Castiel means to say something back, to assure Sam that there’s no such thing as thinking _too_ much, but then he’s kissing him again and he forgets all about doing that. He lets himself go and when Sam sucks at his tongue again and he moans he doesn’t pull away. He pushes closer, lets himself demand more and Sam kisses him harder, so hard he takes Castiel’s breath from him. Castiel grips his shoulder as they kiss and he is distantly aware of Sam’s hand sliding down his neck and beneath the covers, but he pays it no real attention. He’s focused on the feel of Sam’s mouth against his and learning to breathe through his nose while they kiss so he doesn’t have to break away for air quite so often.

However, when he feels Sam’s hand slip under his shirt and around to his belly, Castiel jerks out of the kiss. Chest heaving, he tries to catch his breath and when Sam strokes his thumb in an arc against his skin, he shudders and bites his lip.

“Perhaps this is not a good idea,” he says.

All of those things he no longer believes in have still left their impressions behind. The feel of Sam’s hand against his naked skin is a promise of hellfire and damnation to Castiel. It has lurked in the back of his mind since he truly understood that he would never be married to a woman or take pleasure from one, not the way that most men did. Not the way that, as Castiel was taught, _all_ men should because to desire another man was a sin.

Watching the muscles flex under the skin of John Winchester’s tanned back in the boiling June sun many, many years ago as he’d helped Bobby work on the truck that would one day belong to Castiel, he had known he was a sinner. Because he had wanted to touch that broad, sweaty back and feel those muscles flex under his fingers. He had wanted so bad his hands had curled into fists at his sides as he’d imagined touching him. Then Dean had come along and asked Castiel if he wanted to go down to the swim hole with him. He’d looked at Castiel as cocky and self-assured as he’d seemed from the second he’d climbed out of that big, black car, but his eyes had been lonely; hopeful and Castiel had said yes.

That all feels like a lifetime ago to Castiel now as he lays there with Sam in his own bed, in his own home; a grown man now with no real belief left to speak of regardless whether the man in his bed is an angel or not. Even now, he cannot forget what he was taught, even now it draws him up short and that makes him _so angry_ that he grits his teeth with it.

“Castiel.” Sam’s voice is soft, but it draws him from his thoughts and he shakes his head.

“We should not,” he says despite himself, despite what he _wants_ and it hurts to be so trapped in that loop. That inescapable loop of belief that has nothing to do with real _faith_.

“Why not?” Sam asks him, watching him with his bird-bright eyes.

“Because,” Castiel says and then stops.

Because _why_? Because he doesn’t want to burn for all eternity in a hell that he does not even believe in? There is no easy answer to the question Sam is asking him. He cannot think how to explain his disbelief in an all-knowing, all-seeing deity and how he still thinks he will drown in lakes of burning oil should he do anything more with Sam; that kissing was perhaps too far already.

So he says all that he _can_ say, “Because the Bible says it is a sin.”

Sam leans close to him, so close his face is a blur and his eyes are a kaleidoscope smear of color in his vision. Castiel thinks the black hole that is really Sam’s pupil has an ocean swirling around it now and has to close his eyes lest he become too fixated on that point.

“The Bible is just a _book_ ,” Sam murmurs against his mouth. Even with his voice pitched so low, Castiel can hear the fierceness of his words, something a lot like a growl making them hum against the thin, sensitive skin of his lips. “A book written by _men_ , not by God. He does not care, He never did; not about that.”

“But…,” Castiel says and oh, he wants to believe Sam because he wants to feel Sam’s hand against his skin. He wants to know what it would be like to have him touch him without any clothes in his way and he feels himself flush with that desire, but it does not make it go away.

“But nothing,” Sam says and nuzzles Castiel’s cheek gently. “I know it is so. I would not mislead you.”

“Because you do not lie,” Castiel says back as he lets himself once more run his fingers through Sam’s hair.

“That’s right,” Sam says and brushes his lips across Castiel’s cheek, up his jaw and across his forehead like a whisper.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, the words barely audible and he doesn’t know what he’s thanking Sam for, but maybe it’s for everything. Maybe it’s for always being there. Or maybe it’s simply for _staying_. Castiel takes a deep breath and turns his head, opening his eyes to see Sam as he slides his fingers out of his hair to touch his face and draw his mouth to his and kiss him.

It’s easier after that, Castiel slides into it like it fits and it _does_ fit, he thinks. It _does_ and there’s no Devil waiting for him with a pitchfork because he wants this and as Sam licks inside his mouth, Castiel allows himself to let go. It’s not altogether easy, but it’s easier and it’s what he _wants_. He’s spent his life shying away from anything more than the _idea_ and accepting the knowledge of it. With Sam he can take the extra step and not be afraid anymore. He’s never been afraid of Sam and Sam makes him not afraid of _this_ either.

He slides his fingers into the hair at the back of Sam’s neck and lifts his head to deepen the kiss with an almost desperate sound of want. It feels like a door has been opened somewhere, not a closet door, more like a secret trapdoor hidden under a rug somewhere because Castiel has never lied to himself about this. If anyone had outright _asked_ him he probably would have told them the truth, too. Still, he’s never allowed himself any kind of intimacy with anyone else—rarely with himself and always half ashamedly when he does—but the Bible is just a book and Sam does not lie. How simple his belief in that is that it could lead him here, to Sam’s hand slipping over his belly again and sending goosebumps marching across his skin as he presses up slightly into that touch, asking for more.

Sam licks out of his mouth with a nip to his bottom lip and pulls away to look at Castiel as he unbuttons his pajama top. Watching him back, Castiel leans away until he rolls over onto his back and looks down as Sam slips each button free. He’s breathing too heavily because he may not be afraid of demons plucking his eyes from their sockets now, but he’s still a virgin. He’s still not used to being _touched_ like this.

He sits up to take his shirt off and when Sam slips it over his shoulders, kissing his chest as he does, Castiel says, “Oh,” softly and touches his hair again.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he lays back and lets Sam touch him. He closes his eyes, letting the sensations wash over him, but he can’t leave them closed for long. The sight of Sam’s hands touching him is too fascinating to miss.

Sam’s watching him yet again, something Castiel has not gotten used to; the intentness of his gaze tends to make him feel even more naked than just his current lack of a shirt. When Sam lowers his head to lick his nipple, Castiel gasps and arches his back even as he flushes again. His hands pull at Sam’s coat and drag against the fabric, making hissing-whispering sounds as he tries to touch back. All he finds is cloth though and he yanks at it more insistently, trying to tell Sam, _Off_ , without actually having to say it out loud.

Sam laughs, breath puffing against the moist skin where he just licked and Castiel shivers, fingers bunching in all of that black fabric, dust puffing up around his fingertips. “Sam,” he says. “Sam.”

All Sam does is lower his head again and suck Castiel’s nipple into his hot, wet mouth. The sound Castiel makes when he does that is humiliating, but he doesn’t tell him to stop or try to pull away. He can be embarrassed about it all he wants later, but right now he just wants to _know_ what this is all about and he wants Sam to be the one to show him. It should be a ridiculous thought to have, especially given that he doesn’t know Sam at all, not really. He’s been there for _so long_ though that it almost doesn’t matter. He’s kept the worst of the rain off Castiel’s skin and who knows what other small favors he’s done him. He’s been Castiel’s… _guardian_ for many years and he feels that he can trust him with this, too.

That and for the first time in an incredibly long time, Castiel _wants_ someone else, genuinely wants them and he won’t tell himself no anymore. So when Sam draws hard at his nipple in a way that should hurt, but instead only throbs in the most delicious way, he moans and doesn’t check himself.

He’s still got a handful of dusty old coat though and again, he thinks that is not right. He would like to touch Sam, too and so again, he says, “Sam,” and tugs at the cloth in his hand. “I want to.”

Sam lets go of his nipple with an absolutely lewd sound and tilts his head, considering Castiel. “Do you?”

“I said I did,” Castiel says and tugs at his coat again. “Let me.”

Sam’s smile is brilliant then and he nods as he pulls away to slide off the bed and stand beside it. “Of course,” he says as he takes his coat off and drops it to the floor where it lands with a rustle of fabric and another puff of dust. His plain black shirt is next and when it’s gone, he climbs back on the bed to prop beside Castiel who turns to look at him.

“You’re… well,” Castiel says at a bit of a loss. Sam is a big man, but he also wears big, bulky clothes, so it was hard to tell what may or may not have been under that great old coat of his. Honestly, he really had thought there’d be wings, but it’s just tanned skin and well-defined ridges of muscle.

Sam raises an eyebrow at him, but Castiel doesn’t bother to elaborate. He reaches out a hand and runs it lightly down Sam’s side, over the muscle lying over the faintly defined ridges of his ribs. He moves closer, licking his lips with more nerves and is a bit dismayed to see his hand is shaking just the slightest bit as he slides it around to touch Sam’s back.

Before he can feel much, Sam takes his hand away and brings it to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. “Now let me, hmm?” Sam murmurs against his skin.

Castiel draws his brows together at that, but when Sam nudges at him with his mouth against his shoulder, he lies back again and lets Sam run his hands over him, following with his mouth until he feels like he’s tingling with little static shocks. It could be minutes or it could be days, but it feels like eternity that he lies there with Sam kissing-stroking-licking every inch of his body that is exposed. Castiel’s own touches are awkward in return, hands touching lightly along Sam’s ribs and straying occasionally to his chest to trail down his belly. He wants to do more, but he hasn’t the first clue what he’s doing. Mostly he’s just exploring he supposes, but Sam makes encouraging noises and so Castiel thinks perhaps he is doing something right though he’s a bit too worried he’s doing something wrong to outright ask.

Sam licks over his belly button, dips his tongue in and then nips the skin right below it and Castiel arches up at the sensation. He’s starting to shake a little, sweat beaded lightly on his forehead and upper lip, muscles straining with the want for _more_. However, when Sam mouths him through his pajama pants, Castiel nearly comes out of his skin because he was _not_ expecting that.

“What—?” he tries to ask, but it comes out choked and garbled and besides, he knows _what_.

Sam just cuts his eyes up at him and grins, the look wicked as he hooks his fingers in the elastic waistband by Castiel’s hips and tugs them down. Castiel’s only options are to resist or lift his hips and let Sam take his pants off. He doesn’t allow himself to think, he just raises up a bit and Sam slides his pajamas off entirely.

He lies there naked and shivering, cock hard and resists the very sudden urge to cover himself with his hands. Without realizing it, he even lifts them to do so, but Sam gently pushes them back down and turns his head to lick Castiel’s hip, tongue sliding into the slight dip there.

“Oh,” Castiel says again and rests his hand on Sam’s shoulder and strokes across and down it.

He finds hard curves and ridges under his fingers when he does and Sam rolls his shoulder away from his touch, tongue dipping into the crease of Castiel’s thigh and making him suck in a breath. He opens his eyes to look, but the way Sam is positioned above him makes it impossible for him to see, but he knows he felt _something_ beneath Sam’s skin; bones where there should not be bones.

He starts to touch again, to confirm what he felt, but Sam once again gently takes his hand in his and laces their fingers together just as he licks across the head of Castiel’s cock. Frankly, he forgets all about the seeming anomalies in Sam’s bone structure when he does that. He cries out, the sound sudden as the pleasure that zigzags through him and gasps for a lung full of air that he can’t seem to find. That one little touch and he almost… _almost_ … and that _is_ embarrassing.

“Stop,” Castiel says and Sam cuts his eyes up to look at him again. Making an uncomfortable sound in his throat, Castiel looks away. “If… I am afraid that… well… That I will, you know, if you continue with that.”

He stops talking with a huff and when he closes his eyes that time, he is doing it in part to hide from the way Sam’s started to grin at him. “Would you like to stop?” Sam asks.

“No,” Castiel says immediately, shaking his head. The answer is spoken without thinking and he means it, but he doesn’t want to embarrass himself further by coming so quickly and he will if Sam continues. “I don’t want to… yet. Um. I want…”

He stops talking, floundering and feeling like a fool, so when Sam kisses his hip, mouthing the curve of bone there, he sighs and feels better for it. He feels like he isn’t being made fun of after all and his concern there is a very real one. After all, who _wouldn’t_ laugh at a nervous virgin in his mid-thirties? Most men are keen to get rid of their virginity as soon as possible, practically throwing it away where Castiel has been the exact opposite, working under a, _I think I’ll just hold onto this for now_ kind of philosophy his entire life.

Now though, _now_ he wants to rid himself of it and he doesn’t know how to ask that of Sam. He is usually so good with words, if a bit archaic in his phrasing sometimes, but for this he cannot manage to put together the three, maybe four, words that would give voice to what he wants here.

Sam kisses his way up his body, breath warm as it flows across Castiel’s skin in the brightening morning light. The sun has started to crest the horizon, painting the world gold and orange and the bedroom fills with that light, painting him and Sam as well. Sam kisses Castiel lightly and then turns his head to press his lips to his ear.

He says, voice soft and low, “Do you want me to?”

Castiel shivers all over, hands going to Sam’s head to stroke his fingers through his hair, down the back of his neck and across his shoulders. He feels those strange bones beneath his fingers again and Sam doesn’t shrug him off that time, just rolls his broad shoulders up into Castiel’s exploring hands, pressing those curves of bone into his palms so hard that Castiel cannot deny their very real existence.

Turning his head, his own voice low and faint with nerves, Castiel says, “Yes.”

He shivers again and takes his hands from Sam’s shoulders, barely aware of something like fluttering movement under them the split second before he does so. Closing his eyes against the sunrise, Castiel watches the red light flaring out behind his eyelids and by touch alone, kisses the side of Sam’s neck as he listens to the sound of his breathing beside his ear.

Castiel knows what he is asking and it ties his belly into a knot of nervous butterflies, but it does not change his mind. He understands the mechanics of what he is asking Sam to do as well; he’s watched more than one kind of pornographic film from the box beneath Dean’s bed after all. It was a type of research, a way to prove to himself yet again that wanting to touch John Winchester’s sweaty back had not been a fluke of hormones in reaction to seeing someone attractive.

Licking his lips, face still turned into the side of Sam’s neck and eyes still closed, Castiel says, “In my top nightstand drawer there is—”

“I know,” Sam says back. It is said gently, said in a way that suggests he only does so to spare Castiel having to say more than he wants to. He still flushes again and squeezes his eyes closed tighter because of course Sam knows. _Sam has always been here with him_.

Sam shushes him, kisses his temple and says, “It’s okay, you don’t have to be ashamed.”

“I am not,” Castiel lies. “But you are a stalker.” That makes him smile and eases some of the tension thrumming under his skin and Sam laughs as he moves aside to open the nightstand drawer and get the lubricant there.

Even buying it had caused Castiel quite a bit of discomfort because everyone knows what lubricant is used for. It had been at Dean’s insistence that Castiel do something to make himself “fucking relax, dude” after a hard day at the salvage yard had left Castiel testier than usual. A snapped remark asking just what Dean suggested had yielded a colorful gesture miming masturbation. As Castiel had stalked away from him, thoroughly put out by the whole situation, Dean had called after him to get some lotion or some lube to make it even better.

Dean’s suggestion had planted an unshakeable idea in Castiel’s mind and he’d bought the lube, traveling all the way to a family-run drugstore in the next town to make his purchase. Then he’d gone home, taken a shower and pondered what he intended to do next. All the while he’d been telling himself, _I am not dirty. I will not grow hair on my palms. I will not go blind._

“You’re thinking again,” Sam says in his ear, startling him and pulling him back to the present, which he’d been doing an admirable—and cowardly—job of escaping. Castiel has a bad habit of tuning out when he’s nervous to make everything else easier, but there has never likely been a worse time for him to do such a thing.

“I’m sorry,” he says and opens his eyes to look at Sam.

“You’re very loud about it,” Sam says. “That was an interesting day though.”

“Are you reading my mind?” Castiel asks.

“Do you actually want me to answer that?” Sam asks back.

“Not right now, no,” Castiel says even though he is almost certain that’s what Sam has been doing; he simply doesn’t want confirmation right this second. “But I would like you to stop it.”

He lifts a hand and touches Sam’s face and when Sam turns his head to press a kiss to Castiel’s palm, he smiles again. He likes the feel of Sam’s lips against his skin. He likes the way Sam makes him feel, period. Though he hardly knows him, Castiel is aware that he would like to stay awhile with Sam and get to know him; everything about him.

“Okay,” Sam says and Castiel wonders if he can even help himself, but thinks that he probably can. He pushes lightly at Castiel’s hip, urging him to roll over and when he does, Sam hooks an arm under his waist to make him lift up. He nuzzles the curve of Castiel’s shoulder, breath puffing warm-cool over his skin and making it rise with goosebumps.

Castiel doesn’t ask why and doesn’t _allow_ himself to think about it either; he just goes with it, letting Sam gently move him how he wants him. Honestly, Sam probably has more experience in this realm than Castiel does. Well, most people do, actually, but that isn’t the point. In a way he is relieved to not be lying on his back exposed and so able to _see_ how exposed he is. Once he is on his hands and knees, Sam licks the curve of his shoulder, the hand on his stomach sliding up his torso to his chest as he says, “More, just on your knees, hold to the headboard.”

Castiel pushes himself up just on his knees and leans forward to rest his hands on the headboard. He is still bent over some and he is very exposed regardless of what he thought about lying on his back. He is even more so when Sam pushes his legs apart, baring him even further as he settles between them. Castiel gasps and shivers; muscles along his back twitching when Sam licks up his spine, tongue hot and wet against his skin.

Propped up like he is, Castiel can see out the window behind his bed. Outside the sky is the color of faded denim, backlit by the sun that is gold-yellow ball of flame above the horizon line. There is not a cloud to be seen, but birds freckle all that expanse of washed out blue, black dots against it they are so far away. The tops of the trees sway in the wind and it howls around the eaves of the house in a sudden gust.

Castiel observes all of that in an absentminded fashion, watching the world through heavy-lidded eyes without really seeing much of it. Most of his attention is focused on Sam behind him; the looming presence of him and how he wants more sleepy mornings like this one with a man who is not actually a man that he hardly knows. That thought leaves warmth fluttering under Castiel’s skin that has nothing to do with sexual desire.

He almost jumps when he hears the cap on the lube click open and looks over his shoulder at Sam, of course finding him watching right back. It should be strange how Sam’s eyes never seem to waiver from his face, but he actually finds it comforting in its own way and yes, flattering in an even stranger way. He listens to Sam slicking his fingers and turns to look out the window again with a tiny shudder.

When Sam presses a finger to Castiel’s opening and pushes it slowly inside, he gasps and quivers at the sensation, mouth falling open at the small discomfort as he automatically tenses. He forces himself to relax although it is so very hard to do at this moment, but he knows it will be even more uncomfortable if he does not. Castiel has his own hidden box after all—a box of books—and he has done his research; so yes, he knows he must relax.

As Sam continues to push his finger inside of him, Castiel breathes slowly and carefully through his nose and exhales through his mouth. He feels himself relaxing by degrees and after only a few seconds, Sam’s finger is completely inside of him. He is still for a moment to let him adjust before he starts to move it back and Castiel gasps again. The sensation is like nothing he has ever felt and it is not bad at all, still somewhat uncomfortable, but it also brings a sense of urgency to it that beats under Castiel’s skin and makes his heart thump against his ribs in anticipation. With that sense of urgency also comes a sense of being _free_ to Castiel that he revels in

He stares blindly out at his backyard and the great blue sky beyond it as Sam slowly fingers him open. Sam finds a spot inside of Castiel that has him bowing his back and moaning, instinctively pushing back against Sam’s finger for more. He lets his eyes fall closed and focuses on that sensation and all the others welling inside of him. Sam adds a second finger and Castiel begins to move with push-pull-slide of those fingers until there are three and he’s moaning and shaking, sweat trickling down his back that Sam licks away with quick flicks of his warm tongue.

Sam draws it out for so long that and does it so carefully that Castiel stays balanced on the edge of what feels like oblivion. It feels like his mind is going to shatter from it and he’s so hard he’s aching, but he still has not had enough; he still does not want it to be over, not just yet. Not until he has felt _more_.

“Sam,” he pants out, voice rough as he reaches back with one hand, the other curled tightly around the top of his headboard. His fingers graze along Sam’s arm, over his elbow and up a bit. “ _Yes_.”

The words are bitten out around a moan as Sam twists his fingers inside of Castiel, manipulating that little spot and he has to grit his teeth against crying out. He knows very well what he is asking and has no doubts that Sam understands, too. Sam makes a murmuring sound of assent and nuzzles the hair at the back of Castiel’s neck before he starts withdrawing his fingers. He does it slowly, carefully; taking every consideration however unnecessary they may be with Castiel and he appreciates that.

With both hands back on the headboard, Castiel closes his eyes and listens to the squeak of the mattress springs as Sam gets off the bed long enough to finish disrobing. He hears the rustling sound of his pants hitting the floor. There is no jingle of change or the heavier thud of a wallet in a pocket to accompany that sound.

It is only five, maybe ten seconds, that Sam is gone, but Castiel can already feel himself starting to tense up with worry and nerves again now that all of Sam’s distractions are gone. He can feel the lube growing cold and sticky and he feels so oddly open, an alien sensation that he finds a bit disquieting. What’s more is that he feels _empty_ when he wants—Castiel cannot quite bring himself to finish the thought.

That’s okay though because Sam is climbing back onto the bed, mattress sinking under his weight and his warmth is against Castiel’s back again. Turning his head from the bright, cold morning outside his window, Castiel looks over his shoulder at him and Sam smiles, teeth white as he leans over Castiel to kiss him. He can hear the faint, wet sound of Sam slicking himself with lube and that alone makes him shiver again, nerves coiling into an anticipatory knot inside of him. His nerves do not—will not—change his mind though and he licks over Sam’s tongue and sighs, happy in his own silly little way.

When Sam breaks the kiss with one last lick to Castiel’s mouth, he turns his head back around and lowers it, muscles trembling as he waits. He doesn’t have to wait long before he feels the head of Sam’s cock pressing into him. Sam is bigger than even three of his fingers and Castiel makes a soft sound of discomfort as he moves inside of him inch by inch. It seems to take ages and Castiel is straining against it, shaking with it as discomfort becomes a heavy weight of desire in him, in knowing what he is at long last doing. Sam’s lips press kisses into his skin, warm brushes of his mouth along Castiel’s shoulders, the nape of his neck, to distract him.

Once he’s fully inside of Castiel, he lets out a shuddering breath and almost marvels at the new sensation. It is not unpleasant and even his slight discomfort fades away to a low beat of urgency welling inside of him again; the want to feel Sam moving inside of him this way, too. Castiel shifts a little and rocks back against Sam experimentally, breath catching. Sam sighs above him with pleasure of his own as he begins to draw back to thrust slowly and shallowly inside of Castiel again.

As they move, they find a rhythm and Sam’s thrusts become deeper, but still slow, as he rocks his hips forward and back, Castiel trying to keep up the best he can in his inexperience. His skin is running with rivulets of sweat even though it is cold outside. It drips into his eyes and he blinks it away as he moans and rolls his hips back into Sam’s thrusts. Sam’s lips are burning hot where they press against the nape of his neck and his hands are a slow moving, constant touch as they stroke up his ribcage and back down again to circle his hips. His fingers curved against Castiel’s skin feel like brands even though Sam does not grip him hard or rough. He likes the feeling of Sam’s hands on him like this, possessive, but gentle all the same.

With every thrust across his prostate, Castiel’s pleasure spikes higher and his movements falter as he gets lost in those throbbing bursts of sensation low in his belly. Sam is mostly quiet above him but for the occasional sigh and his heavy breathing, but they are pressed so closely together that Castiel can feel the thud of his heart through the skin of his back.

He wonders about that heart, even now, about how old it may possibly be and of all the times before it may’ve beat like this against another’s back. Castiel wonders about _Sam_ who says he is an angel and is definitely something more than human and claims to never lie. Sam who says he came to love mankind more than any of his brethren. Castiel wonders why, even after listening and watching over him, Sam decided to show himself; to be here with him like this when he could’ve gone on being unseen and unknown to Castiel.

Gasping and panting, sweaty hands slipping against the polished oak of his headboard he forces his eyes open. With pleasure building to an aching, tingling ball in his belly with feelers reaching out to the very tips of his fingers, Castiel cannot help but ask, “Why _me_?”

Sam leans over him even more, pressing their bodies so tightly together there is only skin on skin and like that his heartbeat isn’t a faint thud, it is a pounding drum against Castiel’s back. Sam nuzzles behind his ear and there is a familiar rustling sound. The whole world goes dark even though Castiel’s eyes are open and he knows it. Sam’s breath is in his ear and his hands are on his skin and Castiel is enveloped in the deepest of dark shadows, hidden beneath what he’s absolutely sure is the shadow of Sam’s wings.

When Sam speaks, his voice is a million different voices speaking a million different languages. He holds Castiel close and whispers into his ear, “Because I love you most of all.”

He listens to what Sam is saying and his orgasm is like a cramp in his belly, tightening his muscles until they are trembling to the point it is nearly unbearable. The _trueness_ of those words is like a shove knocking him over the edge. Even though he is not _in love_ with Sam, Castiel is all too aware that it would be a very easy thing to do and that is not the scary thing he always thought falling in love would be at all.

All of that flits through his mind as his body draws bowstring taut and when that cramp releases, he cries out, a sharp bark of sound that echoes under the shadow of Sam’s great wings and his eyes fall closed again. Castiel throws his head back with it and Sam murmurs words of encouragement in his ear, lips warm and moist.

He feels Sam’s body pressed to his all hard muscle and sinew as he pulls Castiel up to press his back against his chest. He lets his head fall back against the curve of Sam’s shoulder and tries to catch his breath. Sam’s smell is all around him, book dust, rain and ozone; Juicy Fruit. It comingles with Castiel’s own scent and the faint odor of Tide detergent coming from the sheets. He inhales all of that as he turns his head and rests his cheek against Sam’s warm skin as Sam wraps his arms around him and kisses Castiel’s sweat-soaked temple. He feels it when Sam comes inside of him, hot and slick and listens to his soft, panting moan that sounds a lot like Castiel’s name.

Castiel is wrung out from the intensity of all he has seen and felt and heard. It has left him feeling fuzzy and distant, body buzzing with languid pleasure. Still, he is aware of light seeping back into his world, blindingly bright as Sam’s wings close again and he almost misses being under their shadow, hidden beneath them as he was. The world is stark and glaring after such darkness. He moans softly as Sam withdraws from his body and feels the cooling rush and tickle of his come leaking slowly from him. It should feel gross, but it doesn’t to Castiel and as Sam lays him down on the bed, he is smiling softly, tiredly to himself.

He’s aware of Sam moving off the bed to stand beside it and when he touches Castiel’s face lightly, fingers brushing his cheek, he forces his eyes open to look at him. He sees Sam’s face and smiles then he looks over his shoulder and sees the tops of Sam’s wings of black, brown and grey. They rise above his shoulders and curve out from his back slightly, sloping down to where Castiel cannot see them, though he knows they must be brushing the floor they are so huge. The feathers shine and shift in the motes of light, flashing like brightly colored stones with their sheen, icy blue, polished bronze and oil-slick rainbows. They cast dancing prisms of light across the walls and Castiel gasps at the sight of them.

Even though he cannot reach them, Castiel still lifts a hand to touch and Sam tilts his head then nods to himself. Kneeling beside the bed with another rustle of feathers, Sam hunches his shoulders and offers his back—his wings—to Castiel’s touch. He watches with his mouth open in a small O of shock as Sam folds them closer to his body so they lay slightly crossed and flush against his back. With hesitant fingers, Castiel reaches out and touches one. The feathers are smooth, silky under his fingertips and warm to the touch. He jumps when Sam shakes them a bit to settle them better and then laughs, the sound shocked and awed at the sight before him. Castiel strokes the curve of it as far as his fingers can reach and then takes his hand back, skin tingling with the remembered sensation.

“Amazing,” he says softly, mostly to himself as he rests his hand on the back of Sam’s bowed head. “You really are…”

Sam lifts his head to look at him and Castiel slides his hand down the back of it, through his soft hair. “Yes, I am.”

Castiel wants to say more, but he doesn’t even know where to begin and Sam smiles at him as he rises to his feet and looks down at him. That wistfulness Castiel has seen before is gone now and Sam looks almost content.

“You should rest,” Sam says.

“You should rest with me,” Castiel says sleepily and reaches out for Sam’s hand, tugging him closer. “Lay down, Sam.”

Sam tilts his head first one way and then the other and then he smiles again, face lighting up and looking so young that Castiel cannot help but smile back. In that moment he looks nothing like the fearsome creature he has always been described as being and Castiel’s smile grows bigger at that thought. He isn’t fretting at all about what’s just transpired, from the sex to seeing that Sam really, truly does have wings. In fact, he feels wonderfully _good_ , loose-limbed and satisfied down to his bones for perhaps the first time in his life.

Sam climbs over him to lay beside him with another rustle of wings, arms going around him and he thinks that he could get used to this; thinks that he very much _wants_ to get used to this. He turns into Sam to press his face to his chest and slip his arm over his side to rest his hand against the back of his ribs and he feels no wings now, just strange bones again and he strokes his fingers lightly over them, knowing now what they are.

He’s still smiling as he breathes in and out and Sam hums softly under his breath, lulling Castiel into a deep sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Castiel wakes again sometime around mid-afternoon the sun is high in the sky and his room is filled with warm light. He blinks at Lot who’s standing so close to him that he’s a grizzled blur and Castiel smiles faintly before pushing him away. Everything is quiet; the kind of quiet that even the silence seems to have a sound. It should feel peaceful, but it feels heavy, like the world is holding its breath all around him.

Castiel stretches and grunts at the faint soreness in his body then he slumps back down on the bed, fully awake now that it has hit him. The weighted feel of the silence fades away though and it genuinely would be serene now if not for the thump-bump-thud of Castiel’s suddenly pounding heart and the quivery little sensation in his belly.

“Dear me,” he mutters into his pillow. He cannot hide from this though and he doesn’t really want to either, not exactly. What’s more, however, is that he _doesn’t_ have to hide from it or feel ashamed. That realization makes him feel better as he sits up in bed to look for Sam, genuinely wanting to see his serene young-old face.

He’s standing in the doorway with a book in his hand, dangling by his side. “You’re thinking again,” he says as he walks into the room.

“And you are reading my mind again,” Castiel retorts and scrubs at his face, filled with the sudden urge to climb under his bed and hide there. It was to be expected, he supposes, his contentment from before was very likely in part due to stupefied shock. Now though, well, he’s feeling a tad bit _naked_ in the face of Sam’s bright-eyed, fully-clothed presence.

He tugs the sheet up around himself and Sam grins as he sits down on the bed beside him. He lays the book across his knee and Castiel absently notes that he was reading Anna Karenina. “I’m not reading your mind,” Sam says. “I just know you and your thoughts are like these…” He pauses and tilts his head back, searching for the right word and then smiles to himself. “Yes. They are like vibrations in the air, ripples, if you will. That is just the way of it.”

“Then how do I stop… vibrating?” Castiel asks and frowns as he tugs at the blankets more.

“You don’t,” Sam says. “I can try and tune it out though if you’d prefer.”

Castiel sighs and looks down at his lap, wishing he had pants and Sam laughs. At Castiel’s sharp look, he shakes his head. “I don’t need to read your mind to know your thoughts. I’ve watched your kind for many thousands of years and this part has never changed. Would you like me to leave you so you can dress?”

“Yes,” Castiel says hastily, but then he puts out a hand and touches Sam’s arm. “I am not used to this, you know that. I… I feel like I should apologize.”

Sam watches him with his head tilted and a faint smile. “No need for that,” he says and then leans in to kiss Castiel.

Castiel finds himself smiling into the kiss and threads his fingers into Sam’s hair as he leans into it more. When they pull apart, Castiel licks his lips and smiles down at his hands as he folds them in his lap. “I am going to shower, too. Will you be here when I am done?”

“If you want me to be,” Sam says.

“I do,” Castiel says.

“Then I will be,” Sam says and gets up from the bed and walks out of the room, leaving Castiel to himself. “I let your dog out earlier, so don’t worry yourself,” Sam calls back down the hall and Castiel looks at the direction of his voice. He is not entirely convinced Sam has stopped reading his mind because the thought had just occurred to him.

Lot pants happily at his bedside again and then props on it, sniffing curiously at the sheets. Castiel feels his face turn bright red. “Do stop that, please,” he says and shoves the dog away before getting out of bed to get some clothes.

Behind him, Lot resumes snuffling the bedclothes and Castiel feels the tips of his ears go the way of his flaming cheeks. He gathers up clean clothes in a rush and beats a hasty retreat to the shower and the warm, soothing spray of the water.

By the time he’s showered and dressed, Castiel is also aware that he’s starving. He leaves the bathroom; nearly trips over Lot sprawled right outside the door and then heads for the kitchen. Sam is sitting on the couch in the living room, reading another book and all around him are neat stacks of books taken from the shelves lining Castiel’s living room.

He pauses, looks around and asks, “Have you read all of my books?”

“Not yet,” Sam says simply and looks up from the book he’s reading now, something by Carol Ann Duffy.

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just says, “Please put them back on the shelves when you are done then.”

Sam laughs and nods. “Of course, alphabetically by author’s last name, I know.”

“Yes, it’s just easier that way,” Castiel says, knowing very well he’s had this same conversation about his book-shelving habits more than once. The only other person who gets it is Bobby.

Then Sam says, “That’s understandable.”

Castiel feels a fluttering in his belly at that and flushes again as he makes himself move on to the kitchen. “I am going to make myself a sandwich and some soup, would you like some as well?” he calls to Sam.

“No, I don’t eat,” Sam says.

Castiel stops with his hand around a can of tomato soup and raises his eyebrows. Sam does not sleep and Sam does not eat either. Such simple, basic, _human_ necessities strike him hard and remind him none to subtly that Sam is not anything like him. Sam is not a man, as he has said, but Castiel still finds it hard to fathom someone—something—that does not eat or sleep. Someone whose mouth tastes like Juicy Fruit gum.

“You chew gum, so you must eat something,” Castiel says as he at last takes the soup down from the shelf.

“I tried it once many years ago,” Sam says. “I just kept the flavor is all, it was pleasant.”

“You did what?” Castiel asks and looks over his shoulder at Sam who is now sitting at his kitchen table.

“You heard me,” Sam says and spreads his hands with a shrug. “Chewing it all the time seemed such a ridiculous thing do in order to get a small bit of flavor that fades away after awhile. So, I chewed it once, liked the flavor and kept that part of it.”

“Obviously,” Castiel says dryly and shakes his head.

“What kind of sandwich are you making?” Sam asks, letting the topic of the gum go.

“Grilled cheese,” Castiel says.

Sam rests his hands on the tabletop and says, “Perhaps I will have one after all then. I’ve never had grilled cheese and I think eating a meal with you may be nice.”

“It may be,” Castiel says, glad his back is to Sam so he doesn’t see him smiling.

He fixes his soup and their sandwiches and when he’s done, he goes to sit at the table with Sam who has abandoned his books in favor of watching Castiel cook with an expression that borders on fascinated. He pokes at his sandwich experimentally when Castiel passes it to him and says, “I think I may like to try cooking one day.”

“Oh? You’ve never cooked before then, I take,” Castiel says, immediately realizing he’s just stated the obvious. He sighs and then blows on his cup of tomato soup to cool it some before sipping.

“Of course not, I have never needed to,” Sam says and picks his sandwich up to sniff it. He smiles faintly at the odor and looks pleased by that much at least. “I have watched people do it many times though and it seems interesting enough. Many seem to enjoy it quite a lot.”

“I find it rather tedious,” Castiel says after a sip of his soup. “Dean and Bobby both seem to like it a good deal. It’s just a shame they’re not better at it.”

He smiles at that and picks up a half of his sandwich to dunk it in his soup before taking a bite. Sam watches him doing that and cocks his head then reaches over and dips his own sandwich in the soup. Castiel watches as he takes a bite and chews slowly, starting to smile as he looks at Castiel with wide eyes.

“This is wonderful,” he says around his food.

“I do not suggest you… keep… that flavor though,” Castiel says.

“Why not? It’s fantastic, very much worth keeping,” Sam says.

Castiel shakes his head and picks up his mug of soup to swirl it around. He hesitates for a moment, but then tells himself to just say it. “Because I would like to kiss you again and not taste grilled cheese and tomato soup every time I do so, that is why.”

“I see,” Sam says. “But the Juicy Fruit is acceptable?”

“Yes,” Castiel says and coughs out a soft laugh. Talking to Sam is strange now, all things considered, but much easier than he could’ve ever predicted and he is glad for that. He hopes there are more opportunities for such conversation between them.

They eat in silence for awhile after that, but then Sam says, “Tell me about your family, I’ve seen you with them, but I am still curious to know about them from your perspective.”

“From my… okay,” Castiel says slowly and sips his soup to have something to do. He thinks about Bobby and Dean, his mother and Rachel; the only family he really has anymore then puts his cup of soup aside to fiddle with the corner of the paper towel his sandwich is resting on.

“Well… I met Bobby when I was sixteen years old,” he begins and then everything after comes extraordinarily easy.

He talks to Sam as though he’s known him his whole life, telling him all about his mother and Rachel and how Dean came to live with him and Bobby. He tells Sam about John Winchester and how he was a poor parent, but that Dean still misses his father regardless. He tells Sam about Bobby’s (in)famous chili and the salvage yard and the good times just the three of them have had there. He knows now that Sam was probably there, too, but only as an observer, so he tries to tell him what it’s like to be a _participant_ in such things as summer barbecues and half drunken games of poker that turn into all-out drunken games of Go Fish as the night grows on.

Sam listens to it all with his elbows propped on the table and eyes fixed on Castiel as he talks. Sometimes he smiles and laughs, but mostly he just listens, head tilted as though he’s trying to sort it all out and understand everything from Castiel’s point of view. The way he tells his stories must be vastly different from what Sam merely observed when he was there for some of those things.

When Castiel is done, Sam is quiet for a long time and picks up his now cold sandwich to take another bite. Chewing carefully, eyes half closed and sunlight glinting off his eyelashes, he seems to slip away into his own world for awhile. He’s still and quiet for so long after swallowing his bite of grilled cheese that Castiel wonders if he told him too much or said something wrong.

Then Sam smiles and opens his eyes all the way again. “Your family sounds wonderful. Bobby and Dean have been incredibly good to you over the years. I am glad to know it.”

“In many ways they are all the family I have, at least that I can see,” Castiel says.

He thinks of Bobby, a widower at a young age after his wife was stabbed to death in a home invasion. Her death made Bobby cynical and bitter in a lot of ways, but he never totally lost his ability to open his home and heart to anyone in need; Castiel and Dean are evidence of that. He thinks of Dean with his ever-sad eyes and how nothing seems to make it go away, but how he still _never_ stops trying. Without them Castiel would not be the man he now is and he loves them for everything they’ve ever done for him, but most of all he simply loves them for _being_. He’s glad to know them and have them in his life, nosying into his business and pestering him with their well-intentioned concerns.

“Bobby is much like a father to me and Dean a brother. I love them both very much, my mother and Rachel, too, but Dean and Bobby are all I know now, really,” Castiel says at last and nods. “I would… like for you to meet them one day, I think. If… if that is not too forward or presumptuous.”

“Brothers are a very important thing to have, yes. As are fathers,” Sam says thoughtfully, eyes far away again as he taps his fingers on the tabletop. “Not at all, I think I may like meeting them one day,” he adds and looks directly at Castiel, eyes snapping back to the present so quickly it’s almost startling.

Castiel meets his gaze right back and Sam tilts his head slowly from one side to the other, as always reminding Castiel of a bird. Some alien bird of prey studying something it is only curious about, not hungry for. It’s a bizarre thought to have and Sam only smiles at him then nods once.

Castiel jumps when his phone suddenly rings and blinks, before turning around to look at it where it’s mounted on the charger base by the microwave. It seems far louder than usual to him and he gets up to answer it then looks back for Sam, but Sam is gone. On his napkin beside the remains of his sandwich is a single black feather that shines like an oil slick rainbow in the light. Little prisms dance across the polished wood of the table and Castiel is reaching for the feather when the phone rings again.

He snatches his hand back and hurries over to the phone. Picking it up, he clicks it on and says, “Hello?”

Bobby’s voice comes down the line and he says, “I think you ought to come on over here today if you weren’t already planning on it.”

His voice sounds strange and as Castiel listens, Bobby lets out a shaky breath. “Why? What’s happened? Bobby, what is wrong?” he asks rapidly, suddenly very worried.

“It’s Dean, son,” Bobby says. “Some woman from the Lawrence, Kansas coroner’s office called up here on her day off to let us know that John’s dead.”

“Oh no,” Castiel says and feels the color drain out of his face. His heart aches for Dean and his stomach flip-flops with more worry and fear about how Dean is taking it and what he may do in his grief.

“Oh yeah,” Bobby says back. “Sonofabitch died years ago and they been looking for next of kin all this time. I didn’t know them folks were so dedicated, but then today they hit gold or something… I don’t have any idea how they found Dean or even knew to call here, tell you the truth. But that don’t matter, what matters is that Dean ain’t taking it so hot and I need some help here.”

“Of course, I… of course, Bobby,” Castiel says and looks frantically around for his truck keys. He remembers they are still in his trench coat, which is hanging from a hook on the bathroom door along with his cap. “I will be there as soon as I can.”

On the other end of the line, there’s a crashing sound and low moan of what Castiel can only call pained grief. Bobby mutters a curse and says, “Hurry up now, between us we may be able to get him calmed down. I hope like hell we can anyway.”

He hangs up on Castiel before he can respond. He just makes out Bobby calling Dean’s name before the line goes dead. With a heavy sigh, he clicks his phone off and hurries on to the bathroom to grab his coat and hat so he can go.

“Sam?” he calls out as he rushes through the house. “Sam, where are you?”

There is no answer and Castiel gives it no more thought as he snatches his coat and grabs his hat before it can fall to the floor. He slaps the cap on half sideways as he goes and shrugs into his coat, twisting it in the back uncomfortably, but right now he couldn’t give a damn about things like that.

His family needs him and _that_ is all that matters.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The first thing Castiel sees when he makes it to Bobby’s is the Impala. He stops his truck and for a moment he sits there in dumbfounded shock. The car is trashed; there’s no other way to describe it. A crowbar lays on the ground next to the back driver’s side tire and all around in the dry autumn grass, busted glass glitters like cheap diamonds. There’s a gaping hole in the trunk and dents all over the once smooth, sleek black body of it.

“My God,” Castiel breathes as he gets out of the truck on watery feeling legs.

This is so very bad and then he thinks about Dean and what he must be feeling. He can barely wrap his mind around the kind of sorrow and anger that must be bubbling in him now that he’s heard his father is dead. He’s been waiting on him to come back for nearly twenty years and now he knows without a doubt that John will _never_ do that. That little spark of hope Dean’s held onto like the worst kept secret has been snuffed out completely.

He does not tarry getting into the house and he finds Bobby and Dean at the kitchen table. Dean’s back is to him and while he makes no sound, his shoulders are shaking so violently it appears almost seizure-like. The room is full of cigarette smoke, the ashtray perched dangerously close to the edge of the table close to overflowing with Dean’s Pall Mall Red cigarette butts. Dean is not typically a heavy smoker—a pack may last him two, two and a half weeks—but there looks to be a pack and a half in the ashtray already. What’s more is that Bobby won’t allow him to smoke in the house because he can’t stand the smell, but all the same the air is grey-blue, swirling with the smoke twisting in it. Castiel supposes this situation warrants a definite exception to the status quo and his stomach gives another sad twist as he crosses to the table.

Bobby spied him the second he walked in the living room, but he hasn’t said a word, only gave Castiel a sorrowful look with a minute shake of his head. Dean’s not talking and aside from smoking with one hand, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle with the other and that terrible, terrible silent sobbing, he’s not moving either. He goes to stand beside the table and lays a hand on one of Dean’s shaking shoulders.

“Dean,” he says softly and squeezes. It’s then that Dean cuts his eyes up to look at him; his face is blotchy red, but pale beneath that, freckles standing out against his skin in stark relief. His eyes are watery, bloodshot and his cheeks are soaking wet with tears that just keep flowing.

“Cas,” he says in a rusty voice and then blinks, his wet, clumped eyelashes clinging to his salt-sticky skin before he slides them open again. Castiel is alarmed to see his bottom lip tremble, that same twist in his stomach coming even harder than before at the sight. “Cas… my dad…”

Dean shakes his head and then sucks in a watery breath. “He’s _dead_ ,” Dean manages to get out and wipes his teary face. It’s only then that Castiel sees his knuckles are bruised, cut-scraped and understands that the crowbar isn’t the only weapon Dean used on the Impala. Then he makes a sound; a sound like he’s retching that becomes a choking noise that turns into one of the most heartbreaking sobs Castiel has ever heard. “He’s never going to come back now.”

That last is what kind of kills Castiel and he can see by the look on Bobby’s face that he’s feeling the same thing. It’s said in the voice of the kid that sat on the front doorsteps with his bags packed for two weeks straight; waiting for a day that would never come. Castiel thinks—and has thought—that maybe Dean never really, not completely anyway, stood up from the doorsteps and unpacked his bags. His words really prove it and Castiel thinks about what a sad man Dean has grown up to be, he cannot help it. And in that moment, dead or not, Castiel genuinely hates John Winchester.

Dean’s got a hold of his coat sleeve, is yanking at it; at Castiel and Castiel bends down without thinking and wraps his arms around Dean. He sobs into his shoulder, another of those awful sounds and Castiel shushes him uselessly as he strokes his back. Bobby gets up from the table, stubs out Dean’s forgotten cigarette and goes to get them another bottle—Castiel doesn’t need to ask, he knows; just like he knows it is going to be a very long night for them all.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The hours pass slowly, painfully and Castiel’s heart grows heavier with each second that ticks by as he watches Dean’s heartache laid bare for him and Bobby to see. The drunker he gets, the calmer he gets, only to have his grief flare up on him all over again. He cries brokenly until he simply seems to have no tears left and Castiel wonders at grief like that; at grief so old and yet still so new that it when it comes bursting forth at long last it leaves a path of devastation in its wake. A path that is just one man, who is still a boy with a split lip and defiance in his eyes that has dimmed over the years, but never went away completely.

“How did they know, Bobby?” Dean asks in one of his calmer moments. “How’d they know to call _here_ after all these years?”

“I wish I knew,” Bobby says and then tips his juice glass of whiskey back for another swallow. “It’s the damnedest thing, I tell you that much.”

“I want to take it back,” Dean says around the filter of the cigarette he’s trying to light, but his shaking hands won’t let him. “I don’t want to know.”

Castiel says nothing, but he does gently take Dean’s Zippo and cigarette from him and light it. He’s watched him smoke for enough years that he knows perfectly well how it’s done. He silently passes it back to Dean who is so… lost… he doesn’t even seem to realize it, he just takes it and sticks it in his mouth, sucking at the filter until the cherry glows violently orange-red.

Bobby gives him a look that says, _Thank you_ as he reaches out to grasp Dean’s arm and give it a comforting squeeze. “I know it’s hard, son, but maybe it’s better that you do know.”

“How is that better?” Dean snaps. “How the _fuck_ is knowing that my whole family is gone now better than me thinking Dad was out there alive and kicking? You tell me that.”

Bobby doesn’t say anything, but Castiel is betting he’s thinking the same thing he is: Now that Dean knows John is dead and gone then maybe he at long last can stop waiting and move on.

There is the very curious matter of how Dean was suddenly found by the Lawrence, Kansas coroner’s office. On a Saturday no less, Castiel thinks and then he thinks about sitting in his kitchen and telling Sam about Dean and Bobby. He thinks about how Sam has been there for a very long time, long enough that he at least saw John once, maybe twice. He’s seen Dean almost as much as he has Castiel and that far away, almost dreamy look on his face as Castiel had spoken about all of those things over lunch. The way the phone rang and Sam disappeared, a black feather all he left behind.

Dear God, Castiel can’t be absolutely certain, but he thinks he knows _exactly_ how Dean was found at long last. He gasps, but the sound is soft enough the other two don’t hear him. Sam knew _why_ the phone was ringing just as surely as he had orchestrated this whole thing. Castiel doesn’t know whether to damn him or thank him for doing it, but he thinks he may have to damn him at least for now; for not giving any _thought_ to the kind of scab he was about to rudely rip off and leave Dean bleeding the grief of _years_ all over the place.

He glances up then and looks over Dean’s shoulder to the corner by the wall and for the first time in hours, he sees Sam. He’s standing with his hands clasped in front of him and head bowed in what could be prayer. He glances up and meets Castiel’s eyes for the briefest of seconds and then he’s gone again. Castiel does not think anyone else ever knew he was there at all.

“Excuse me,” Castiel says. “I need some air. The smoke…”

“Yeah, I hear that,” Bobby says and nods Castiel away from the table. Dean’s lost in his own thoughts and doesn’t even seem to hear him.

He slips out the front door and strides off into the junkyard, away from the lights of the house. Once he’s far enough away, Castiel whispers into the wind, “Sam, show yourself. I know you are here.”

“Of course I’m here,” Sam says, simple as that, speaking from behind Castiel.

He jumps and whirls on him, eyes blazing. “How could you do such a cruel thing?” he snaps at Sam, still whispering, but so angry. “You have broken his heart.”

“His heart has been broken for many years,” Sam says. “I gave it the opportunity to mend.”

“By destroying his hope?” Castiel snarls at him, voice raising some. “His hope is what he clung to.”

“His _hope_ is what was _suffocating_ him,” Sam says back. It’s the calmness in his voice, the certainty that what he’s saying is true that makes Castiel even angrier.

“You had no right,” Castiel tells him. “You’ve been here tonight, probably even before I arrived and you have seen what this is doing to Dean and yet you still think your way was the correct way.”

“Think what you will, but what I have given him is a gift,” Sam says, his own voice growing lower and something dark sparking in his eyes. “None of you may know that yet, but it is and I do know. I can _see_ , Castiel, things that you cannot. If he had been allowed to hang onto his precious hope he would never be anything more than a… What was it? A boy waiting on the doorsteps for his father to come back?”

“Damn you,” Castiel spits at him and paces away. Sam is not a man and he should not expect human emotions like guilt or contrition from a creature such as himself, but it does not make him any less angry. The fact that, deep down, he knows Sam is right only makes it worse. Whirling back on Sam and not completely believing he is about to do what he _knows_ he is, Castiel shoves Sam once—he doesn’t so much as rock on his heels—then presses close to him and says, “You gave him this pain then the least you can do is lessen it some. What he is feeling now will destroy him if it does not stop, can’t you _see_ that?”

“I see that there is the possibility of it happening, but there is no guarantee of it coming to that,” Sam says, head tilted again as he meets Castiel’s eyes. Castiel could swear he is almost smiling.

“Then remove the _possibility_ , you meddlesome _thing_ ,” Castiel yells at him finally. “He is my _brother_ , blood or no blood and you must make it better.”

He slumps back, suddenly exhausted and scrubs at his face. Sam is looking at him with his head tilted the other way now, something almost hurt in his eyes even though his mouth is still curved the tiniest bit, threatening to break into a smile all the same.

“I am begging you,” Castiel says at last, thinking of the hollowed out look in Dean’s eyes that has replaced the tears and curses from before. His shaking hands and empty, pretty eyes as the grief eats at him like a vicious bacteria.

“Very well,” Sam says, still studying Castiel. “I will lessen his grief and give him some rest. For you.”

“For Dean,” Castiel says and Sam shakes his head.

“No, for you,” Sam says. “I gave Dean the knowledge of his father’s death so that he may move on, but I am taking away some of his pain only because you are kind enough to ask me to.”

“Sam,” Castiel says, unsure of what else he can say. He’s not ready to thank Sam yet, but he does owe him an apology, he realizes. “I am sorry I called you a _thing_ , you are not a thing.”

“No?” Sam asks and he does smile then.

“No,” Castiel says back, an answering sliver of a smile on his own lips as he feels suddenly shy again. “Not to me you are not.”

“Then that’s good enough,” Sam says and reaches out, brushing the tips of his fingers down Castiel’s cheek.

Castiel’s eyes automatically slip shut at the touch that never fails to bring a faint, warm shiver with it. There is no more than that though before there comes a rustling, whooshing sound that Castiel recognizes from the day he found the owl feather that was not what it appeared to be. He knows that feather’s owner now, intimately well and when he opens his eyes, feathers are swirling in the air like brightly colored autumn leaves. Castiel smiles, knowing it is Sam’s way of letting him know he’s going to make things better.

With that, he puts his hands in his coat pockets and trudges back to the house. When he gets there, Dean is on the living room couch, his bruised and bloody hands cradling his head as Bobby stands by worriedly. Castiel is beginning to frown already, thinking Sam has lied to him after all, but then Dean jerks his head up and looks straight ahead.

“It’s you again,” he says. “How did you get in here?”

Castiel can’t see Sam, but he does hear, _Shhhhh_ , the sound soft as falling snow or feathers. Dean’s eyes slide closed, fresh tears squeezing from beneath his lashes and for a moment, everything seems to stand still: Castiel watching and Bobby watching and Dean weeping silently with what almost seems to be relief as some of the tension drains from his shoulders.

Then Dean sucks in a deep, harsh breath and his eyes fly wide open before fluttering back to a sleepy looking half-mast.

“What the hell?” Bobby says and shakes his head as the spell is broken. “I think I just fell asleep on my feet. That’s a first.”

Castiel smiles and Dean yawns, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Speaking of sleep,” he says as he takes first one lurching step and then another towards the stairs. Sam apparently did not see fit to sober him up, Castiel thinks with a twinge of amusement.

“You alright?” Bobby asks.

Dean stops for a moment and thinks, but then he nods slowly. “I… I think I will be,” he says then turns to look at Castiel. “Cas, man, I’m sorry about—”

“Don’t you dare apologize to me for this,” Castiel says sternly and crosses to give Dean a hug. With his arms around him, Castiel asks, “Who were you talking to a moment ago?” He knows, but his curiosity is being its usual inopportune self and wanting to hear it from Dean.

“For a minute there was this _guy_ ,” Dean says. “I saw him last night, too, he woke me up because I fucked around and passed out on the porch anyway, but I thought I was dreaming. Now I’m thinking I’m fucking hallucinating or something instead. He—” Dean stops there and they step back from each other, Dean giving him a searching look and Castiel looks back, head tilted in a way that he recognizes very well. “He makes me think of someone; of how they may’ve looked all grown up.”

He clears his throat suddenly, blinking rapidly and then claps Castiel on the back. “I needta crash,” Dean says around another yawn. “I’m talkin’ out of my goddamned head.”

“Rest well, Dean,” Castiel tells him and lets him go.

He shares a look with Bobby who shrugs as Dean clumps up the stairs, but when Castiel doesn’t look away, Bobby sighs. “He had a little brother,” he says. “He got kidnapped when he was about five or six years old. Ain’t nobody heard or seen nothin’ of him since.”

“What was his name?” Castiel asks.

“Sam,” Dean says where he’s stopped halfway up the stairs without them noticing it. His voice sounds heavy-heavy in the sudden hush. “Sammy. I was supposed to be watching him, but I turned my head and… _Poof_. He was gone. Dad was… he was so… _mad_ at me. I— Nevermind.”

Then, with another shake of his head, Dean walks on up the stairs and Castiel locks his knees to keep from falling into the wall. All these years and he never knew; now he does and it explains even more about Dean. Yet, it leaves so many more unanswered questions dangling in the wind that Castiel is having trouble processing them fully.

“I believe I should be going now,” he manages to say and Bobby nods, he was expecting as much. They’re all tired as hell after what’s happened tonight, emotions drain people like nothing else can.

Castiel walks outside on shaking legs and whispers, “Sam,” but the only answer is the fog twisting lazily in the light breeze, white streamers of mist rising from the ground to dance with it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam is standing on the doorsteps, waiting for him when Castiel gets back. He parks his truck and kills it then is out of it so fast he nearly falls.

“Who are you?” he demands yet again. “Really.”

“I am who I said I am,” Sam says.

Castiel studies him and thinks about Sam saying he never lies but, _There are loopholes, sure_. This, he is certain, is one of those loopholes and in that moment he finds he is faced with a decision: Pursue it and make Sam tell him the whole truth or leave it alone.

“Are you Dean’s brother?” Castiel says because he can’t _help_ but do so. One question is not an inquisition, after all and it’s an _important_ question.

Sam is quiet, still as a stone standing there as he studies Castiel in the moonlight. It is a cold night with fog creeping around the edges of everything; slinking like phantom hounds out of the fields and forests to make its way across Castiel’s lawn. In a few hours it will have the house wrapped in its cobweb hush; muffling everything and confusing what sounds do penetrate it. For now it has not made it that far and beneath the carport, Sam is a clearly defined shape, a black silhouette with faintly gleaming eyes in the moon-glow blue light.

Castiel can feel the minute it takes Sam to answer him dragging out through the counted beats of his heart. He wonders why he even asked; if it will be worth knowing should the answer be yes after all. Then what? What could he possibly say to Dean?

“I am not Dean’s brother,” Sam says at last.

“No?” Castiel asks, head reeling and he’s thinking about loopholes and wondering how intentionally he just gave Sam this one.

“No,” Sam says and sighs, eyes closing like he, too, is tired. “I am not.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Castiel says, shaking his head in bewilderment.

He thinks he may be finding loopholes for himself now, but he can’t be sure. Loopholes are tricky and labyrinthine that way; once one starts fumbling around, wiggling and fidgeting to slot into them, it gets very easy to become (willfully) lost.

Castiel coughs out a tired, confused laugh—there’s not much else for him to do aside from pelt Sam with questions. He supposes he could, but what he would do with such knowledge, he does not know and is a bit afraid to find out. So, he scrubs his hand over his face and sighs instead, feeling strange; like the fog has crept into his head and is wrapping his thoughts up in smoky film. This is the kind of thing that could eat him alive if he were to let it and damnit, he does not _want_ to let it; he simply wants something—this, he wants _this_ —for himself without fretting over it ceaselessly.

Sam touches his shoulder and looks at him. “Am I scaring you?” he asks at long last, worry in his eyes despite Castiel’s laughter. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You’re not,” Castiel says.

He stands there; thinking of all that he has learned and realizes that, no, he does not understand the first thing about any of it. With time though he thinks he may and he does want that time, he wants _Sam_ , the angel who does not lie, but is fond of loopholes because otherwise he gets bored. The angel who is comparable to Lucifer and that cannot necessarily, if he is being honest with himself, always be a good thing. Castiel doesn’t know what that says about him; if it makes him a bad person or not. He _hopes_ not, he truly does and he shakes his head, giving Sam a troubled look.

Then he decides to let it go, to leave it for now because he has waited his whole life for Sam without even realizing it. Licking his lips, Castiel pushes all of his questions, worries and doubts aside for the time being and grasps the lapels of Sam’s dusty black coat to tug him down off the doorsteps.

“I have never been afraid of you,” Castiel says, looking up at Sam. “Never, even when I thought I should be.”

Sam tilts his head and smiles faintly and Castiel smiles back before pushing himself up on his tiptoes—and he does spare a second to think how ridiculously silly he must look, but Sam is very tall. Then he kisses Sam and he doesn’t care about that.

When they pull apart, Sam blinks at him and Castiel licks his lips. “Yes,” he says simply to have something to say or maybe he’s giving himself permission once and for all and that’s nice, it truly is. Then he yawns and blinks, feeling how gritty and still burning from all the cigarette smoke his eyes are. “I am very tired.”

“It’s understandable,” Sam says and strokes the back of Castiel’s head, fingers running over the adjuster band of his gimme cap. “You’ve had a trying day. You should rest, Castiel.”

“Will you… Will you lie beside me for awhile?” Castiel asks.

“I would like nothing more than to do that,” Sam says.

With a nod and a little, secret-happy smile as he goes around Sam to get to the door, Castiel unlocks it and leads Sam into the dark house back to the bedroom. He undresses and climbs beneath the covers, settling against Sam when he lies down next to him, arms wrapping him up and holding him close.

Sleep comes easy with Sam beside him, humming that same strange lullaby of his and when Castiel dreams, he dreams of sleeping beneath Sam’s wings of black, brown and grey. The wind-torn fog twists around the house in serpentine undulations, creeping beneath the cracked window at the head of the bed like forked tongues. In the darkness, Sam smiles to himself from his perch at the foot of the bed as he settles his wings more comfortably, the breeze caused by their stirring pushing the fog back outside and the window silently slides closed. The fog continues to knock with its spectral fingers, but it won’t get inside now and Sam hums some more then opens his wings.

In the corner, Lot is quiet-quiet-quiet, but watching as the shadows of those wings cast strange shadows on the walls, not unlike reaching fingers themselves.

  


**Author's Note:**

> I like to think it goes without saying, but on the off chance it doesn't: Under no circumstances was anything in this fic meant as an insult, criticism or bash of the Amish and their beliefs/practices. I thought the idea was interesting and ran with it, that's all; it's just a story and nothing more.


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